


Beauty Within Beast

by SpicyReyes



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fic Rewrite, M/M, Multi, Orc!Bilbo, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, the hellfic from 2013 returns kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 17:14:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11490942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyReyes/pseuds/SpicyReyes
Summary: Bilbo Baggins wanted nothing more than the chance to try again.Perhaps, in hindsight, he should have been more specific about how.(Rewrite of original fic, first posted in 2013)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The rewrite begins! I'm warning you now, while the basic story is the same, the sequence of events and their particulars are pretty heavily altered.  
> Also, trigger warning for a somewhat graphic description of a painful death at the beginning of this chapter.

Bilbo Baggins did not die in peace.

He made sure every soul in the Undying Lands would tell Frodo that he had, would claim that he slipped off in a blissful sleep, but he did not. 

Instead, he curled on his side in the shade of a beautiful oak tree, shaking with sobs and pain as he felt his body cease its functions. Without the ring to keep him alive and strong, he had been falling increasingly ill, and under that tree he felt the full force of it. Coughing blood, clawing his hands, desperate for the end.

But worse than all those pains, still, was the voice in his head telling him  _ this is nothing, to what they suffered.  _ Which ‘they’ he meant, he had no idea - Thorin? Fili and Kili? The ones lost to the Battle of Five Armies? The Fellowship? The thousands who had suffered in the War of the Ring? 

The list of those affected by Bilbo’s sins was endless, and he felt it as an echoing ache that would not subside. 

Bilbo Baggins did not die in peace, because even in death, his soul knew no rest. His grief was far too strong. 

  
  


When the shaking had faded, and Bilbo felt free of the aches and pains of his last days, he knew it was over. He opened his eyes, taking in a beautiful field, spanning endlessly in all directions. 

As he sat up, he saw eyes, and looked further. Giving him a wide berth was a crowd of Hobbits, long dead, watching him with cold eyes. 

He heard the faintest of harsh whispers, caught the glares, and curled tighter in on himself. He deserved this, he told himself. Their ire was well earned. An eternity of this was no less than he had brought upon himself.

Light washed over him, suddenly, and he looked up to see a figure of a beautiful Man before him. 

“Bilbo,” the man greeted, voice softly resonating in the valley like the strum of a fiddle-string. “Your trip here has been long and arduous, but I find that the destination is no more restful.” 

Bilbo realized then that he was being spoken to by  _ Eru himself,  _ and straightened. He found himself speechless, not sure how to even begin to address such a being as their creator. 

Eru gave him a kind smile that Bilbo couldn’t help but think he did not deserve. “You consider this to be atonement, but an eternity of suffering is not what I inteded your afterlife to be.” At Bilbo’s wince, he laid a soft hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. “All you did was done innocently, with only the kindest of intentions. You did not let the greatest evil the land has known poison you, and that is a feat that should be celebrated. Instead, you mourn, carying more grief than such a kind-hearted creature is equipped to bear.” He moved his hand under Bilbo’s chin, tipping it up, locking their eyes. “The true test of your strength of soul would be your approach to things, had you known full well what was happening. How would you do things, if you lived your life again, knowing what you do?”

“I’d change everything,” Bilbo answered immediately, voice almost desperate. “I would sooner I never existed than for all those souls to suffer twice.”

“And if the odds were against you?” Eru prompted. “If your foreknowledge could only get you so far?”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Bilbo told him. “If I had to cut my legs off at the knee and crawl to Mordor to destroy that ring, I would.  _ This could not happen twice.”  _

Eru smiled again, this one bright and wide. “I sense the honesty in your heart, my child, and I will trust you to keep your word.” He moved his fingers to press against Bilbo’s brow, and murmured, “Good luck, Child of the Earth. May your steady heart guide your feet.” 

With that, Bilbo’s world went black. 

  
  


There was growling when Bilbo woke. 

He blinked open his eyes, only to gasp and scramble back, because those were  _ Orcs  _ standing over him. 

And...oddly enough, the one in the front seemed sort of  _ concerned.  _

He (if they were a he? Bilbo knew nothing of Orcs, really) said something in the guttural tones of Black Speech, but he recognized none of the words. He’d only managed to figure out a handful of violent phrases over his years, but this was more...gentle. Kind? It was odd to hear. 

_ Understand,  _ a voice whispered, soft as a summer breeze, and then the world seemed just a bit sharper. 

“Burzash,” the Orc in front murmured again. “You look like I’m after your throat. A battle-dream?”

Burzash? Bilbo looked down, to his hands, only to suck in another breath. His hands were large and gnarled, calloused and scarred in ways his had never become. He scrambled to the side, where a small puddle of water sat in a dip in the stone floor, and looked to his own reflection in the ripples.

Hand he not felt death before, he would swear the sight stopped his heart.

His face, soft and wrinkled with his years, was long gone. Instead, an  _ Orc  _ stared back at him. As Bilbo’s breath came increasingly quickly, he took in familiar details: that was his nose, if larger and more twisted. The eyes were his same rich brown, except the whites were yellowed and the entirety seemed glassy. His soft mouth was there, but stretched around a very different set of teeth. Over all, the only easily recognized feature, one that was undeniably his, was a set of curls, spilling dirty and matted down one side of his face. The other side appeared to have been sheared, quite hastily and messily if the jagged strands remaining were any indication, and he reached to run his fingers lightly over them in mourning. He’d always been fond of his thick golden-brown curls, but now they were so tattered and filthy they could very well have been black for all he knew. 

“Burzash,” another Orc called, and Bilbo looked up at what he presumed was his name to see one of the other Orcs of the trio eyeing him carefully. “Should I fetch Brogud? I have no talent with medicines.” 

Bilbo realized that these Orcs seemed to know him, and that Eru had likely crafted him a life in this mountain. His brain informed him that  _ Burzash  _ meant  _ balance,  _ and he figured that was fitting enough, given his purpose. 

If he was going to find out anything about how to begin fixing things, he would need these Orcs to at least deem him trustworthy. Which meant he needed to  _ calm down.  _

“I am fine,” he said, slowly, the words coming out slightly stilted as he adjusted to speaking in a language he did not know organically. Eru’s gift of language treated it a bit like an echo, where the words of Black Speech and the same words in Westron were layered atop each other. It was distracting, but he was adjusting quickly. “My dream shook me. It took me a moment to remember where I was.”

“And  _ who _ , it seems,” the first Orc said. “You were looking at yourself like a stranger. Are you having another of those days?”

Bilbo blinked, wondering what that meant. 

Before he could ask, though, the Orc shook his head. “Nevermind it. We were fetching you for the morning meal. Join us?”

Bilbo had no idea where to start with his quest, but he always felt better with a belly full of food. “Lead the way,” he agreed, and pretended he knew what he was doing. 

_ Oh, Eru,  _ Bilbo thought, heading after the Orcs.  _ You really meant it when you said my odds would be poor.  _

  
  


The halls of the underground-seeming base the Orcs were in was rather intricate. The walls were cut smoothly into stone, but were not flat and squared as Dwarvish architecture was, and neither were they the fanciful arches of Elvish designs. They were, instead, reminiscent of  _ Hobbit  _ architecture, made of smooth curves with no embellishments, where there were no added supports because the Earth-based designs held themselves up easily. Even with heavy stone and high ceilings, the walls showed no sign of strain. It was functional and practical but also strangely...pretty. The stones had not been buffed nor shined, but left imperfect, and the light reflected off a myriad of tiny facets in its surface to create a bright and lovely atmosphere Bilbo did not expect to find in an Orcish stronghold. 

However, in the midst of admiring the build of the halls, Bilbo also noticed something helpful: every single wall was labeled. 

Etchings of Black Speech, carved deep into stone, told the name of the area you were in. While it gave no directions to other areas, it was a thoughtful addition, as though they anticipated Orcs getting lost in the halls often. Perhaps it was an adaptation, Bilbo thought. The Dwarves had once explained to him that they had a sense for stone, which gave them an inherent ability to find their way underground. If Orcs lacked that, it would make sense they would mark the walls to help. 

Eventually, they came to a wall with a wide open doorway - a term he used loosely, because there did not seem to be doors in the fortress, only wide open arches - marked with the Black Speech rune for a dining area. 

“Mokum,” one of the other Orcs called, causing the first to turn. “I see my sister. Sonagh and I will meet back with you later.” 

“I’ll see you then, Pakgu,” the first Orc - Mokum, apparently, which Bilbo’s brain informed him meant  _ hatred -  _ replied. “I’m going to see if I can get the flower-blood here to eat.” 

Bilbo’s nose twitched as he realized that meant him, and that it was meant to mean something like ‘elfish.’ As an  _ insult.  _ As though being like an Elf was a bad thing. Honestly, they were as bad as Dwarves.

…Upon reflection, he decided to keep that thought to himself. 

Mokum nudged him with his elbow as the other two wandered off, and Bilbo let himself be led into the room. 

The setup was interesting: one wall had a series of long tables with no chairs, lined with large dishes and pots and other feast-sized foods. On the far end of the table sat a stack of strangle tablet-like things, which Bilbo observed when closer. They were a strange, warped metal, with two dips: one large, square, and shallow, and the other smaller and round, but deep. 

He watched as Orcs selected foods from the table, dropping meats onto the square section and scooping broths and stews into the bowl area. 

It was like a buffet, Bilbo realized. Hobbits had them for family gatherings, when it was not large enough to justify a banquet but not small enough for a typical meal to suffice. The only difference was that buffets, to Hobbits, usually meant joyous occasions where young ones scrapped over the last fruit tart while adults swapped recipes for the dishes they’d brought. This seemed more...solemn. As though none present were entirely happy about the situation, but not bothered by it either. It was simply a task they performed, a way of obtaining something they needed that they did not otherwise think much of.

Bilbo couldn’t imagine a life where food did not bring any joy at all. It sounded quite tragic, honestly. 

Then again…

He eyed the dishes before him, tiny metal tray clutched in hand. He did not trust the meat, because he had never quite figured out if Orcs  _ actually  _ ate other people or not, and he’d rather not unknowingly participate in such a practice. 

Luckily, Mokum seemed to catch his deliberation, and nudged him. “Most of that is from Bolg’s hunt, so I’d dodge it, too. But the stew at the end is the scrap stuff from last night, so it’s just the bits of horse meat that got charred a bit much and all the green shit that got passed over.”

As much as Bilbo’s stomach churned at the idea of eating a  _ horse,  _ that sounded the least objectionable option, and he was grateful for Mokum’s distrust of Bolg justifying his choice to dodge meats. He’d have to figure out a system for meals, eventually, he supposed, but for the moment he served himself a good sized portion of the barely-touched stew and found a piece of bread on a similarly ignored platter that wasn’t entirely stale. 

The stew was predictably distasteful, with charred meat and overripe vegetables, but oddly not as terrible as Bilbo thought it would be. Someone had clearly known the ingredients were subpar, because they were masked under a heady mix of herbs, which Bilbo  _ knew  _ would have made him ill before, but suited an Orcish pallet quite nicely. 

If he really stretched, Bilbo could almost liken it to that awful cabbage stew Lobelia always brought to potlucks. One could stomach it, for politeness, but it was best to have ale at hand to drown out the taste. 

Bilbo had not grabbed any drinks, because he had not seen any. No one else seemed to have one either, which seemed...odd. He wasn’t thirsty, though, so he ignored it, munching his bread instead. 

After a bit, he realized he could soak bits of bread in the stew, softening the bread with broth and giving him a new thing to eat that was neither tough to chew nor sickeningly tasteless. Broth-soaked bread, he decided, would likely become his staple meal. 

“So, Burzash,” Mokum drawled, just as Bilbo was using the tough crust end of the bread like a spoon to scoop up what appeared to be a carrot from the broth for inspection. “If you are still shaken from your dreams, we could head to the training fields. I’m still determined to teach you to use weapons properly, instead of just throwing them about. Just because you are stronger than most does not mean you do not need skill.”

Bilbo paused, considering. As a Hobbit, he’d been...particularly hardy. Hobbits were quite strong, despite appearances, and could carry weights of things that other races would need carts for. It was common in the Shire to see a Hobbit break a wheel of their cart and simply lift barrels of Ale or pipe weed or large sacks of potatoes and carry them the rest of the way as though they were weightless. Still, even with that inherent strength, Bilbo had been an oddity: he’d come home from Erebor laden with a chest full of solid gold coins and multiple packs filled with assorted personal treasures, entirely unbothered by their weight, when even  _ Dwalin _ had suggested having them sent on a caravan later to avoid such a burden. They’d all commended his “Dwarvish” strength upon seeming him lift all the cases with ease, and Bilbo had simply laughed them off and told them that no gold chest could compare to the sheer weight of a squirming hobbit faunt. Upon arriving home, though, he learned how strange it was - any time Lobelia tried to make off with his things, she huffed under the weight of even a fraction of them. 

It would make sense, then, that his uncanny strength would carry over to an Orcish body. He only hoped that this particular body was more coordinated, because Bilbo had made many a misstep along the quest. His swordplay, as had been pointed out by almost every member of the company at some point, consisted more of swinging widely and ducking returned hits than anything else. 

If Burzash, this Orcish persona he’d been given, had an excuse to be a poor swordsman, and was being offered lessons, Bilbo had no reason not to accept.

So, he did.

  
  
  


The training field, it seemed, was an actual field. Which surprised Bilbo, because he had been operating under the assumption that the Orcs never went outside. 

Which, to be fair, the field was not open. Bilbo’s assessment of the base had been correct in that it  _ was  _ cut into mountains - plural, because there was no single mountain serving as the full base. It was a circular mountain ridge surrounding a single valley - the location of the training field - with each mountain containing another part of the base, and all linked through sturdy-looking bridges. 

The center valley was wide enough that there were a good number of Orcs present, all practicing weaponry, and none were anywhere near each other’s space. Not that it mattered, much, because as Bilbo watched an Orc turned and chucked a knife at the back of another who was sharpening his sword, and the latter simply ducked and let it stick up to the hilt in an archery target a few feet ahead.

It was dead center, which was rather impressive, if terrifying. Bilbo wondered if that had been the goal. 

Probably.

Mokum did not linger, dragging him to the far end of the field, where there were weapon racks. The weapons on it were sharp and deadly, sure, but they also seemed heavily worn - some were slightly chipped or broken, others had edges that had gone jagged, all of them had worn-down hilts or were stored in tattered sheaths. Training weapons, Bilbo presumed. 

Mokum grabbed two items off the main rack: a short sword, twisted in a grisly looking curve, and a small bag that jingled as it moved with what the (former?) Hobbit supposed were knives. He followed the Orc to a part of the field far away from any other training session, and passed over the bag. “I’d rather test your aim  _ before  _ I wear your arm out with sword training,” Mokum told him. “So there.” He pointed to a target, a good distance aways. “See how well you can hit.”

Orcish eyesight was quite poor, compared to a Hobbit’s, because Bilbo was certain he would have been able to see the target better with his old eyes. Resisting the urge to squint at it, he tried to recall long-abandoned skills in Hobbit throwing games, from catch to conkers. He’d been quite good at throwing, he remembered, and wondered how that translated to weaponry. 

The knife he pulled out of the bag first was tiny and had a large chip missing out of one side of the blade, but looked no less deadly for the damage. The edges of the blade shown in even the low light of the valley, showing they’d been sharpened to the finest of edges.

He let out a slow breath, testing the weight in his hand, as he would have with a stone or acorn in conkers. He obviously couldn’t flick it, like he did most of his projectiles in games, nor could he throw it like a ball or larger stone. He shifted his grip on the knife’s hilt until he found a comfortable way to hold it where he trusted he could release it, and…

Threw. 

The knife spun wildly, the release Bilbo had done far too sloppy for anything with more finesse, and stuck firmly at a heavy angle in the dirt just before the target. 

“Not bad,” Mokum said. “You had good aim and distance, you just can’t throw. I can fix that.”

Mokum then proceeded to run him through training on how to throw knives ‘properly’ for what felt like  _ hours.  _ Just when Bilbo thought they were done, Mokum set the knives aside and grabbed the sword he’d all but forgotten about, and they were off again on a whole new type of training. 

The faint sunlight that could reach over the mountains to paint the valley faded the longer they trained, and soon it was what Bilbo pegged as early evening - something rather alarming, given he was fairly certain that they began in the morning. 

But when he rolled his shoulders, he didn’t feel as sore as he felt he should, and his stomach did not protest the idea of a full day on a single meal. His body was much hardier, he realized, and that would take some adjusting to. 

Which brought him to another thought: did he have  _ time  _ to adjust? How soon did he need to act? How far back in time was he?”

“Mokum,” Bilbo called, catching the Orc’s attention. “What day is it?”

Mokum blinked. “What?”

Bilbo tried not to shift, realizing that was an odd question for someone in their right health to ask. “I must have lost track somewhere, I think, but I can’t remember what day it is exactly.”

Mokum looked oddly amused. “Of course you’re still tracking the date,” he said, which confused Bilbo until he elaborated. “The Men’s calendar is of no use to me, but I think Thargul might still keep it.” He gestured to a scraggly-looking Orc, sat on a stump and fretting over the edge of an arrowhead. 

Bilbo nodded and headed over, stopping just before the other creature, not wanting to die a second time simply because he startled an Orc with a weapon. 

The other looked up, revealing glassy gold eyes that flickered up and down over his person. “Burzash,” he rasped out. “My fellow heathen. I meant to ask you if you had any new books. I haven’t been out in a hunting party in ages, and when I do go they keep me so busy I can’t slip away to look. I’m so  _ bored _ .”

Bilbo paused. Did….did his Orcish self have some sort of illegal book trade running? He couldn’t help but feel slightly proud of that. At least he was educating the masses, somehow. 

“I don’t,” Bilbo said. “Sorry. I wanted to ask if you knew the date?”

Thargul tipped his head. “Um. I don’t, not precisely. Like I’ve said, I haven’t left the mountain, and our mealtimes and lighting patterns don’t quite match up with real days. My last hunt was a few weeks back, I think, and it was the last good snow of the year, so we must have recently turned over. That makes it...Sometime in January, in the year 2941 of the Third Age.”

That would make it  _ Afteryule,  _ in the time of the Shire calendar. The Quest for Erebor began - for him at least - just after the start of  _ Thrimidge _ . In the Men’s calendar, that was…late April? Heavens, this would have been easier if the Orcs kept the Elvish calendar. He’d been on that system for years.

Regardless, he’d learned what he needed to know: he was several months prior to the start of the Quest. He had time, then. 

“Is there any particular reason you wanted to know?” Thargul asked, before leaning forward, giving him a wicked-looking snarl of teeth that he realized was meant to be a grin. “Because I’ll tell you, I’ve been planning to slip off sometime near June. The Elven woods are sick, and I’ve heard tale that there are spiders larger than a Dwarven pony. I  _ want one.”  _

Bilbo choked at the idea of an Orc breeding massive spiders for use in battle - or, more oddly, keeping them as  _ pets.  _ “I doubt they’d let you make off with one,” he pointed out. “Either the spiders or the Elves. But...if I’m in need of a way east come summer, I’ll join you. If only to Mirkwood’s edge.” 

Thargul grinned his monstrous grin again, and returned to sharpening his arrowhead, leaving Bilbo to retreat. 

Orcs were...quite odd, actually, upon observation. 

  
  


His conversation with Thargul apparently marked the end of their training for the day, because Mokum immediately lead him back inside, and Bilbo followed while wondering if they were on the way to an evening meal or something new. 

He didn’t wonder long, because they didn’t make it anywhere: soon, a guttural voice was spitting out his name from down one of the halls. 

Bilbo froze, turning to meet the furious gaze of the one who’d called him, because that was  _ Bolg.  _ The son of Azog, the killer of Kili, the fierce and unyielding lieutenant of the Orcish army. 

And, apparently, someone who took personal offense to Bilbo’s existence. 

Lovely. 

“What does he want?” Bilbo asked Mokum, lowly. 

“His father’s pride and admiration,” Mokum replied, tone dry. “And your untimely death. Likely not in that order.” 

Wonderful. 

Bolg stopped his angry stomping a few feet before Bilbo, and pointed at him with his mace. “You were seen in the valleys, conversing with the other Expel. What were you planning?”

Expel? Bilbo’s brain turned over the greeting he’d received from Thargul, of  _ My fellow heathen.  _ Perhaps they were both shunned? Somehow formally? 

He didn’t get a chance to respond before Mokum spoke up. “Neither is officially an Expel, Bolg, and you cannot treat them as such until the decree is made. Both are free to speak to whom they wish.” 

Yes, it was definitely some sort of official exile. Curious. Bilbo was learning an awful lot on a culture he’d thought to be entirely straightforward. 

“They are known conspirators,” Bolg returned. “We have caught both with contraband numerous times, and you would argue they should be left unchecked?” He didn’t give Mokum a chance to respond, before looking to Bilbo. “You are being summoned to the leader’s chambers. Follow me.” 

He turned to leave, clearly expecting Bilbo to follow.

Swallowing hard, he let out a slow breath, and complied.

_ Oh, Eru,  _ he prayed.  _ I really hope you won’t have to see me again after a single day. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two journeys begin, miles apart, set to converge at a later date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter of this story was about the first chapter and a half, and this is about midway on chapter 2 to the end of chapter 3. A chapter and a half per new chapter is probably gonna be standard fare for length and pacing, I think. That should put this version as catching up to the new one in about 24-25 chapters? Just for a spitball. And then I have the actually ending to finish after that. So you're looking at like...35-40 chapters, probably

Bolg seemed to be silently gloating in the way he walked, striding with purpose through the halls, and Bilbo watched as Orcs looked up to catch sight of them and immediately hurried away. 

That was  _ not _ reassuring, but there was little Bilbo could do about it, now. 

He delivered him to a door, which Bilbo eyed with caution. Every other room he’d seen had been lacking the door, he recalled, and it did not bode well that this one was sealed. 

The stone slab shifted to open, and Azog stood before them, face twisted in a sneer. “Burzash,” he greeted. “Follow me. You and I must have words.”

Bilbo watched Bolg turn and leave, and swallowed, before heading into the room obligingly. He didn’t really have room to refuse, after all.

Azog strode across the room without pause, pointing down to a space on the center of the stone floor as he passed it. “Kneel,” he instructed, and Bilbo resisted the urge to vomit as he complied. He watched the Orc leader as he crossed the room, digging in a chest, before resurfacing with a device in his hand.

A hilt like a sword caught Bilbo’s eye, and he looked along it to see that it ended in long leather strips, tipped with metal balls. A  _ flog.  _

“I know you will not tell me what you and the Exile spoke of,” Azog told him. “I am not so foolish as to waste my time trying. Instead, I’ll remind you why you should not break our rules.” 

The flog made a cracking noise as Azog flicked it the first time, and Bilbo shut his eyes.

_ Endure,  _ he told himself.  _ For all those you damned,  _ **_endure_ ** _. _

  
  
  


His back was open and bleeding when he was finally dismissed, but no one seemed to notice in the halls. It helped, he supposed, that there were few Orcs still wandering about. He supposed it must be nighttime. 

Which reminded him: he didn’t know where to  _ go.  _ He didn’t know if the place he woke up in was his room, or if he was meant to be there, or if he needed to be doing something else entirely. He had no concept of how to act in this foreign society. 

He longed for a cup of tea and blanket, curled up before a fire in either Bag End or his suite in Rivendell. He longed for the company of a friend or relative to whom he could vent - Frodo, in particular, would be nice.

He longed for his own body. More than anything else, he missed being a Hobbit. 

He strangled a shout, then, as he was grabbed randomly around the arm and dragged into a hall. 

He looked to the side to see Mokum, face set stern. “Be silent,” the Orc warned, and Bilbo swallowed and nodded once, before letting the other drag him through the fortress.

Soon, they stood before a barred door, and Mokum shifted the wood out of the way to push it open. Bilbo sucked in a breath at the sight of what laid beyond: a crumbling stone terrace, coated in cobwebs and lined with long-dead plants, but still more like home than anything in the mountain’s heart had been.

“Thank you,” Bilbo told Mokum, but the Orc didn’t even really respond, just nodded and retreated. Bilbo shut the door after him, and stepped out to the terrace edge, grabbing the rail as he looked up to the stars.

Eru had done him a kindness, with Mokum, Bilbo decided. At least if he was to endure a curse of body, he would have company. 

Soaking in the starlight, Bilbo felt his tears fall unbidden, and granted himself the moment to grieve - just a single moment, just a quick release, just a small admittance of weakness, and he would move on. He would be strong, and try again. 

Just for now, though. Just for now, he would let himself be the Hobbit he’d likely never be again. 

  
  


While Bilbo adjusted to his new life, hiding within the stone walls of Mount Gundabad, a Dwarf sat in an inn, staring at the old grey-looking Man who’d just sat down across from him. 

“I suppose,” the Man said, adjusting his robes as he made himself comfortable in the little chair, “That I should introduce myself. I am Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey.”

The Dwarf knew this - if perhaps he’d have used a different name for him. “I know who you are,” he said, voice coming out just a touch shy of a growl: a warning. An unspoken  _ why are you here  _ and  _ why are we speaking?  _

Gandalf smiled, and if the Dwarf prince were less attuned to catching the subtle looks in people’s eyes when they looked at him, he would assume the wizard simply didn’t catch his irritation. As it was, he knew he  _ had  _ caught it - he was simply ignoring it. 

“This is a grand chance!” Gandalf said, in a tone that implied that  _ chance  _ had nothing at all to do with it. He leaned forward, voice lowering conspiratorially. “Tell me, then. What brings Thorin Oakenshield to Bree?”

Thorin watched the wizard with suspicion. Revered among his people he may be, Tharkûn was still well known for only appearing when shadowed by trouble. The Maia would either help or not, however, and Thorin felt no harm in telling the truth. “I heard tell my father was seen in the woods. I came to investigate.” When Gandalf’s face revealed nothing to him, he added, “I found nothing.” 

Gandalf gave a knowing hum. “Little has been seen or heard of your father for quite some time now.” 

“And yet, I feel he still lives.” 

The two stared at each other for a long moment, before Gandalf turned to flag down a waitress and order a drink. When she returned and dropped it off, Thorin realized Gandalf had no intention of speaking first, and decided to ask what was on his mind.

“My father sought your counsel before he left,” Thorin prompted. “What did you speak of? Where has he gone?”

“Gone?” Gandalf repeated. “I haven’t the faintest of ideas. But I can tell you what I told him, and it is the same thing I will now tell you: march upon Erebor. Reclaim your homeland, run off the pests and dark spirits that lurk in those mountains, before they get the chance to spread.”

Thorin watched the wizard for another long, wary moment. “This was no chance meeting, was it, Gandalf?”

“It was not,” the wizard confirmed. “Your father was not in a position to feasibly claim the mountain, and told me before he vanished that you were the most likely to succeed. I have been trying to arrange this meeting since.”

Thorin huffed out a frustrated breath. “Even if I could risk my people to fight a dragon, I could not gather the forces. The Council will answer only to the authority of the one holding the Arkenstone, and the gem is lost - and, with it, Erebor’s right to claim a ruler.”

“You are king nonetheless,” Gandalf told him. “And your people shall rally to your call. For the armies you will need, you must claim the stone, yes - but you needn’t do everything at once.” He looked around, then smiled a tight smile at Thorin, expression betraying a slight sense of urgency. “Perhaps we should speak privately?”

Thorin sighed, resigning himself to whatever madness the wizard was about to bring him into, and went to arrange for a room. 

  
  


Once in a room and away from prying eyes, Gandalf relaxed slightly, and pulled out a torn bit of cloth, covered in runes that Thorin recognized (with a sinking feeling in his gut) as the language of Orcs. 

“A friend of mine, patrolling the woods near the Misty Mountains, found this on an Orc whom he’d slain. He sent it to me, and I was glad for it - it is a warning, of sorts, just shy of a bounty.” 

“For me?” Thorin guessed, but Gandalf shook his head. 

“No. For a group of fellow Orcs.” He traced out a line of runes along the side. “These are names - seven of them. The Orc patrols are all on guard that if any of these Orcs are spotted outside of Mount Gundabad, they are to be labeled defectors and killed, as they have been proven to be insubordinate toward their leaders.”

“Leaders?” Thorin prompted.

“Orcs in charge of Mount Gundabad, for one,” Gandalf said. “But their orders do not stem from their own minds. In defying them, these Orcs have shown that they care not for the whims of any dark force, no matter how deeply ingrained in their soul the call is.” 

Thorin leaned back. “You believe there is a group of Orcs that can be persuaded to good,” he summarized. “You wish for me to...what? Send them to fetch the stone? I would not trust a beast alone with the treasures of my forefathers.” 

“Not alone,” Gandalf corrected. “You will return to the Blue Mountains, and gather all those willing to march on Erebor at your side, no matter how few in number. I, in turn, will send word to the Orcs. I will ask their leader to join our quest.” 

“I don’t understand,” Thorin admitted. “Are you having us be..escorted? To the mountain?”

“Orcs will not even register to a dragon, their bodies are too similarly tainted,” Gandalf told him. “Take the Orcs to Erebor, and have them retrieve the stone for you. Send word to the council to send their soldiers, and reclaim the mountain.”

“And what would the Orcs stand to gain from this?” Thorin asked, incredulous. “Surely you do not intend me to split the wealth of my homeland with monsters of Morgoth.”

“While I cannot speak for them all, I have learned much of their leader.” He folded up the cloth notice, putting it away, clearly having said all he needed on the contents of it. “He is not one to ask for gold or jewels. If anything, he will likely ask you for a favor, and one you would not mind granting: the head of an enemy of yours, long thought dead.”

Thorin paled. “ _ Azog.”  _

Gandalf nodded. “It is the Pale Orc himself who currently leads the Gundabad Orcs, and it is he who signed the notice I showed you. He and the rebel Orc leader are constantly at odds, and I suspect they’d each like nothing more than they other’s downfall.” 

Thorin huffed out a long breath again, wishing he had a pipe to smoke or a strong ale to drink - anything to get the crawling out from under his skin. “I do not trust this,” he told Gandalf. “But I have no reason not to take you at your word.” He stood. “I will gather any Dwarf who will agree to fight by my side. Send word when you have found…” He tipped his head. “What is the Orc leader’s name?”

“Burzash,” Gandalf told him. “Though, in the common tongue, it would be  _ Bilbo.”  _

  
  


Bilbo remained on the terrace until the dawn light was starting to paint the mountainside, mentally entertaining fantasies of what the terrace would have looked like when in its prime, properly maintenanced, with real living plants. 

He kept returning to the only plant that had any remaining life to it at all: a tiny sprig of cliff maids, turning their happy and colorful flowers to soak up the sun as it stretched across the stone. Their roots had forced their way through the cracked pot they’d originally been in, and spread through the stone itself, forming a mangled and twisted mess of overgrowth along the railing of the terrace. Still, the flowers were bright and cheerful, and they stood out against the grey stone and oppressive atmosphere of an Orc stronghold.

Within the chipped fragments of clay pot, long shoved aside by the free-spreading flowers, was a rather intricate network of cobwebs. 

Tiny, almost invisible spiders worked their way through the strands, weaving more and more additions to the designs they sat on. 

They were likely babies, he figured, having lost their mother and taken over her work. They would feed themselves and live in the web they built, and then they’d have their own babies and die and leave those babies to build their own nests….all in a cycle.

Bilbo wondered if a  _ spider  _ would ever get the chance to fix a mistake like his, and then immediately worried for his own sanity. Perhaps his new body was getting to him. 

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m going to start finding those all over the mountain,” a voice came from behind him, and Bilbo turned to see Mokum approach. He nodded to the flowers. “I still don’t know how those little bastards are alive. You only get water up here once a week or so.”

Bilbo relaxed, because  _ this  _ was at least a topic he knew. “They’re cliff maids,” he told Mokum. “They  _ can’t  _ get a lot of water, or they drown. If a heavy rainstorm came through, they’d wash out.”

“This,” Mokum said, sounding amused. “ _ This  _ is why I call you flower-blood.” 

Bilbo snorted. “I know more about vegetables, actually.”

Mokum threw his head back and laughed at that. “Vegetable-blood hasn’t the same ring to it.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, toward the door. “It’s dawn, and Brogud reported he was heading out to restock his medical supplies. Since no one else in this bloody mountain seems to give a damn about his work, they bought his excuse he needed an entourage, and we’re all heading out.” He looked to Bilbo, face grim. “We were using it as a simple meeting time, but after yesterday, I’m worried our time to wait is used up. We can be packed and ready at your command, if you want to leave today.”

Bilbo looked back out over the ledge of the terrace, eyes on the horizon, considering. His mind turned over images of gold rings and haunted eyes and a shining stone that was simultaneously beautiful and hideous to him. 

“Let’s go,” Bilbo said. “I don’t want to wait around another moment.”

Mokum had no way of knowing what Bilbo was waiting for, really, but he seemed to have his own ideas, because he didn’t question it at all. 

Bilbo had no idea what this party of Orcs was up to, but he prayed that Eru was giving him the chance he needed at the start. If not…

If not, he’d figure it out. He couldn’t afford not to.

  
  


Within the hour, Bilbo was led out into the sparse woods at the base of the mountains on the back of a large red-brown warg, with a soft ring of fur jutting out from its neck, and a weirdly fond regard for Bilbo. 

Mokum had laughed when the warg saw him and leaped to  _ nuzzle  _ him, of all things, and joked about how much animals loved him compared to how his fellow Orcs tended to hate him. 

In the commentary, Bilbo had caught reference to the warg’s name: Timorsham. His mental translation informed him that meant something like  _ terrible  _ or  _ terrifying,  _ which seemed an ironic name, as the warg seemed to be closer in personality to a small kitten than a wild wolf. 

Timorsham was fast, and Bilbo had barely settled on his back before he was off, bringing him up to the group of waiting Orcs in no time at all. 

There were five of them, making for a group of seven in total, and they all had stern-set faces that told him whatever they were up to here was serious. 

Improvising to cover his lack of knowledge, he prompted them, “Before we do anything, we should review our plans.” 

Luckily, Mokum took the bait easily, and began to speak. “The Elven woods are less than half a day’s journey to the south, at a typical travelling pace. If we push without pause, we can make it there by noon. It will give us plenty of time to set up for an ambush - by the time Azog’s party arrives, we will be ready to take them down.” 

Oh, by the Valar, Bilbo had somehow ended up in an  _ Orc rebellion.  _ Of course he did. He had such an interesting mix of luck.

Bilbo had the strange urge to catch Eru himself by the ears like he’d have done with a young hobbit lad. Dropping him into the middle of a  _ war  _ and telling him to use it to prevent a new one! Ha! It was properly rude, that was. 

The party began arguing, for a moment, over details that Bilbo couldn’t even begin to follow, before a question of importance caught his attention.

“If the Elves try to fight us, do we take them out?” Bilbo recognized the Orc as one of the two who had split off from him and Mokum when he first awoke, but couldn’t remember his name for the life of him. 

“No,” Mokum said, tone leaving no room for argument. Had they not been so insistent on referring to  _ Bilbo’s _ status as party leader, he’d have thought the job fell to Mokum. “Fighting for one’s home is an honorable battle. If it is impossible to fight Azog’s soldiers without the Elves being in the way, we shall pull back. I am not interested in trying to reason with a warmblood.”

_ Warmblood  _ was an odd term, and Bilbo’s magical mental translation had stuttered over it for a moment. He got the feeling it was not a direct translation at all, but instead an untranslatable word given a Westron equivalent. He had no real explanation for its meaning, but Bilbo assumed it was referring to Elves, based on context. 

Perhaps he’d start a dictionary.  _ Exile  _ and  _ warmblood  _ would be the first two entries. Perhaps  _ flower-blood,  _ as well, since Mokum seemed disinclined to drop the nickname. 

“We’ll cut them off before they reach the wood, then,” another Orc decided, and Bilbo was slightly startled to realize he was pretty sure that particular Orc was  _ female.  _

Bilbo hadn’t been entirely certain Orcs  _ had  _ genders. Now, he could see that was silly, but still. He only ever saw males, to his knowledge. 

Shaking off his surprise, he shifted on his Warg. “We can discuss it again when we’re close, I suppose,” he murmured. “But we should probably get moving. I did not leave Azog happy.” 

Mokum snorted, muttering  _ “Do you ever?”  _ but nudged his own Warg into motion even as he grumbled.

With that as a silent signal, the other Orcs started up, heading south along the range of the Misty Mountains. 

As Bilbo came up from behind them, trying to keep up while allowing them to guide his way, he couldn’t help but feel like the breeze brushing his face was actually just Eru laughing at him.

_ Rude. _

  
  


In the deep woods, by a small hut, sat an old and stately oak tree, with branches stretching out far and wide.

Upon the lowest and shortest of these branches, sat an owl, which let out a loud screech just as it settled. 

The door to the hut swung open, and out stumbled the haggard figure of Radagast the Brown, eyes wide with alarm. 

“What is it?” he cried. “What news?”

The owl shrieked again, and the wizard paled. 

The Reborn was on the move. 

He needed to alert Gandalf. 

  
  


“An  _ Orc?!”  _

Thorin barely resisted the urge to wince at Dwalin’s yell. “It sounds ridiculous, but-...”

“But nothing, Thorin,” Dwalin growled. “Tharkun has talked you into madness.”

“I have no reason to doubt him.”

Dwalin threw his hands up. “Other than the fact that he’s suggesting you befriend  _ Orcs!  _ Honestly, Thorin.”

Thorin sighed. “I understand. I will not ask you to join me in this.”

Dwalin glared at him. “I didn’t say I wasn’t coming. I’m certainly not leaving you alone with a barmy old wizard and an Orc for company. Bloody hell, you’re completely obtuse.” 

  
  


Fili and Kili exchanged a look, sharing an amused smile at Ori, who was still murmuring to himself over the possibilities of the journey ahead.

“A  _ friendly  _ Orc,” he repeated, for what must’ve been the tenth time. “Could you  _ imagine?”  _

“Clearly you can,” Nori muttered, beside him, but Ori ignored him completely.

“Oh, imagine if I could learn something of what they are like outside of fighting. Surely they must have some culture of their own? I could write a book on it.”

“Or,” Kili suggested, drawling out the words. “He could eat you. That’s also a possibility.” 

“That is true,” Fili agreed. “No one ever said  _ friendly,  _ they just said these Orcs don’t like the others.”

“Still, seven Orcs that defected from  _ Azog _ !” Ori gave them a bright, excited smile. “They must have  _ some _ loyalty or honor.” 

“Seven,” Kili said, quietly, ignoring Ori’s continued protesting. “Seven versus thirteen. Whose luck do you suppose we’ll get?” 

“Twenty altogether,” Nori offered. “Entirely neutral a number.”

“Twenty-one,” Fili corrected. “Gandalf.”

Kili snorted. “Gandalf is unlucky by himself! Wizards aren’t the least bit trustworthy. Let alone that one.”

“You’ve never met him, you dolt,” Fili said, grabbing Kili around the shoulders and digging his knuckles into his brother’s skull. “Let alone any other wizard!”

Ori sighed, watching as Kili retaliated by tackling Fili into the dirt, and the two went to scrapping. “No one else is excited, are they?”

“Not in the slightest, my dear brother,” Nori said. “Except maybe me. I’ve got bets placed on these Orcs, y’know.” He turned to Ori, a glint in his eye. “Ten silver pennies say they do nothing but scowl at us for the first week of this journey.”

Ori sniffed. “ _ Fifteen _ ,” he countered, ever optimistic, and shook his brother’s hand through Nori’s laughter. 

  
  


The Orcs had not been wrong in their estimates of time, Bilbo realized quickly, because why the journey might have taken a troop of ponies a day or even two, the Wargs travelled at speeds that left the world around them a blur. More than that, the travel did not seem to exhaust them at all - by the time they skidded to a halt, the forest of Mirkwood looming in the distance, the Wargs seemed more excited than anything, as though they considered the full-speed run to be a game. 

Bilbo sighed, running his fingers through the soft fur of Timorsham’s head, and settled in to wait.

Eventually, he’d need to figure out how he was going to split off to meet the others - but, for now, he would help this group thin out Azog’s soldiers.

It was the least he could do, after all, for all the help they’d given him, and it wasn’t as though it wouldn’t help him as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Timorsham, Bilbo's Warg, actually matter in this one. In the last version I made passive reference to the gigantic puppy of a Warg (mainly from Thorin watching him like 'what the shit is this') but I wanted it to actually be talked about. Because it just sounds so ridiculous. Sue me


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "one and a half old chapters to one new chapter" i said  
> and then proceeded to put two full chapters of content in this one  
> @ past me: why is your pacing so inconsistent

The smell of blood and decay carried in on the wind a mere two days after the party of rebellious Orcs made camp, alerting them to the presence of their anticipated foe. 

Bilbo’s six companions moved with practiced fluidity, drawing weapons and standing battle-ready. 

Over the past two days, Bilbo had said little, but actively observed the others every passing moment. He learned their names, and small details of their personalities: the female Orc was Durz, strong and stern; her brother was Pakgu, who had a dark and unrelenting humor; a short and stout grey-skinned Orc named Brogud served as a sort of field medic, which was an unpopular choice of study for their kind; a soft-spoken but highly intelligent Sonagh watched everything with a keen eye; and Ogul, the last of the orcs, was stated twice in the time of their camping to have strength unmatched, even by Bilbo - who was still, apparently, considered to be a marvel of physical prowess. 

Just as the scent began to be matched by the noises of Warg paws upon the earth, marking the approach of Azog’s scouts, Mokum approached him with a set of battered armor pieces - they were worn from clearly excessive use, and probably generations old, but they were also shining with the glint of well-loved and routinely polished metal. 

Bilbo blinked, because the other Orcs were not in armor - nor had he ever seen an Orc short of a few generals in the Battle of Five Armies in armor at all. Bolg, in fact, was the only one he could recall ever wearing anything that could be deemed protective. 

“We are fighters with honor,” Mokum told him. “Our kind may not know the meaning of the word, but we will not forget - and our leader should reflect this. You protect us with your life, as you always have - let us protect you with our gifts.”

Bilbo swallowed, and nodded, accepting the armor. He’d never really worn any, in his life - with the exception of the two or three times he’d donned his mithril shirt - so it was odd to put on, but he did feel much better at the knowledge there was something between him and a blade for this fight. 

The others formed a line at his sides, eyes on the horizon where the scouts would soon appear, and Bilbo was amazed to see their faces held neither fear nor bloodlust - only a grim determination, as though the fight was an unpleasant necessity. 

“...Thank you,” Bilbo told them, struggling to find words in Black Speech for the sentiment that he  _ ached  _ with. “You are stronger than Azog or his followers could ever be.”

It was not the expression of gratitude or the wish of luck he really wanted to give, but their language was limited. In the Shire, he’d have bouquets of pink roses and dahlias for each of them, but as it was…

As it was, he lifted his Orcish sword - a vile and twisted thing, not the elegant curves of Sting - and called out to start the charge as Orc heads popped up over the hills, because if they would understand his gratitude in any way, it was his help with their fight. 

Even if it killed something in him to act as a warrior, it was worth it.

For the assistance to his new friends. For redemption from his past misdeeds. For Thorin, for Fili, for Kili, for Frodo.

He brought a blade messily down through the neck of an Orc, as Mokum had instructed him days ago in a hidden valley full of strangers, and told himself that it would be alright.

What was the heart of one Hobbit, weighed against a thousand lives?

  
  


The Orcs camp was nestled in the patch of land before the branching of two rivers, meaning there was plenty of water with which Bilbo could wash the blood from his skin. 

The others seemed unbothered by their grimy state, but Bilbo could not get undressed fast enough, shedding his armor at the riverbank and wading in, watching the water around him swirl pink and brown. 

Mokum snorted from the campsite, where he stoked the beginnings of a fire - he’d been entertaining the idea of a victory meal on the return trip from the battleground. “If you are trying to wash the mats from those locks of yours,” his strange new friend called, “You may as well just let me cut them out. It would be far less trouble.”

“You are a knife-thrower,” Bilbo bit back immediately. “If you want to take my hair, do it from over there.”

Mokum laughed heartily. “Like I’d trust you to return the blade! Keep your hair, flower-blood. At least Durz will have some company in fair appearance.” 

Durz shot him and icy glare, while Bilbo wondered if Mokum’s comment was based in a history of ‘Burzash’ pilfering knives. Given the training session he’d been subjected to his first day, he doubted it - it was more likely a comment on what Bilbo’s preferred weapon had been at that time. 

He left them to their merrymaking, crouching low in the water to tip his head back, soaking his curls. They were indeed quite matted, as he feared, but not hopelessly so - he scooped up coarse sand from the riverbed and used it to work out caked-in dirt and oil, slowly loosening the strands from their tight-formed clumps. He’d have killed for a bar of soap, or even a plant that could produce a lather. As it were, he let sand and water alone be his salvation, resigning himself to stinking faintly of the river’s sediment (and the fish and other life that dwelled within it) for however long it took him to find a soapwort bud or root thick enough to boil. 

He took some time, once his hair was as soft and neat as it was going to get, to clean his body thoroughly, taking note of every new feature.

Orcs had varied heights, from what he’d seen: some were almost as short as Hobbits, within the mountains, though all of his party were on the taller side. Durz stood about a half head taller than a typical Dwarf - likely only an inch or two above Thorin, if Bilbo was remembering the Dwarrow’s height correctly - with her brother standing a mere centimeter shorter. Unlike Dwarves, though, their build was not broad - Durz was muscular, but in the way of men, where the muscles sat tight to the skin rather than building out into a bulk. Pakgu, in contrast, was lithe to the point of being wiry, looking almost as though he could hide simply standing behind the trunk of a sapling. Mokum stood around the height of a somewhat short man - at least five foot and as many inches, if Bilbo were to put numbers to it. Brogud and Ogul fell around the same height, and all three male Orcs were as horrifically muscular as Azog the Pale himself - more so, for Brogud, in fact. Sonagh, at least, had his own terrifying muscles wrapped around a thing skeleton, causing him to appear more similar to Pakgu’s build when fully clothed. Unfortunately, the Orc archer seemed fond of chucking his tunic aside in favor of displaying a twisted burn scar across his right breast. 

With these bodies as reference, Bilbo was able to note his own appearance was somewhat...odd. 

He was strong, undeniably, and he could feel well-toned muscles flex as he moved, but they were hidden under a layer of soft extra weight that gave him a more comfortable appearance. His skin was a rich brown, though it was lighter than his skin as a Hobbit had been, the deep olive appearing more copper without the kiss of the sun painting it darker. Dragging a lock of his hair forward on his shoulder, he could see that the cleaned strands were a lovely honey-brown, which he thought complimented his skin quite nicely. If he didn’t remember the horror that was his Orcish face, he could almost believe himself a handsome young lad again. 

Beyond his coloring and build, his anatomy itself was interesting: his feet, for one, were  _ ghastly.  _ The were large only by the standards of men, but less than half what he had boasted in his first life. How he was managing to walk on them, he had no idea. He must make a dreadful amount of noise. 

At least he’d yet to be forced into something as terrible as  _ shoes.  _ He could just imagine how well  _ that _ would go. 

His legs were long, and Bilbo made a note to check his height at some point. He knew he was, miraculously, the tallest in the party, given that he looked a bit downward when speaking to Mokum, but he didn’t know quite  _ how  _ tall. He’d like to have a good solid reference in mind, so he knew how much taller he’d grown in his body-swap. 

His fingers were meaty and wrinkled - the latter likely from the excessive bathing he was doing - and his hands were coated in calluses, yet none seemed to be those of a soldier. Mokum had apparently thought him hopeless with a weapon, and his hands spoke volumes toward that: he clearly did  _ something  _ to build strength and thicken his skin on his hands, but what it was, he hadn’t the slightest of ideas. 

Ultimately, he decided the less attention he paid to his new (temporary?) body, the better, and took to washing his breeches instead. He also scooped up Sonagh’s tunic - discarded once again - and deemed it about the right size for him, thanks to the archer’s broad shoulders and apparent fondness for loose clothing. 

With a full outfit settled, clean, and upon him, he rejoined the others at the camp, relaxing onto a fur mat with a pleased sigh.

“Done grooming, then?” Mokum asked. He did not wait for a response, just turned to the side, letting out a sharp whistle.

Instantly, the red blur of Timorsham was barreling into Bilbo’s chest, knocking them both flat on the fur as the Warg made himself comfortable atop his master. 

“Oh,” Bilbo grunted, reaching up to scratch the gigantic pup’s ears. “You, my dear boy, haven’t the faintest idea how large you are.”

“It’s your own fault,” Pakgu told him. “When you raise a cub, you have to wean it at some point, or he turns into this. A lap-sitting monstrosity.” 

“You hush,” Bilbo defended, as Timorsham nuzzled him. “He will likely break my ribs one day, yes, but it will be a fitting way to go. I’m not going to deprive him of the company of the only sensible person in this camp.”

All the Orcs laughed, at that, with even the stern-faced Durz letting out a small snort, and Bilbo supposed that he’d fit in just fine. 

Unless they wanted to eat some poor creature, or something similarly vile.  _ Then _ he’d stick out like a white clover in a green field.  

  
  


“So,” Mokum drawled, as the sun set on their camp. “What do we do now? Azog won’t notice this patrol didn’t report back for a few days, and then it’ll be  _ weeks _ before a new patrol comes out and reports back and he starts issuing bounties.”

Bilbo considered it for only a moment, before he sat up. “We aren’t far from a goblin cave in the mountains,” he said. “There’s a creature there, withered and old and sickly in body and mind - and he has something I need.” He pushed himself up, standing. “If you’re willing, I’d like to go retrieve it - and, perhaps, finally deal with poor old Smeagol.”

  
  


Gandalf’s eyes shot open, his brief rest in the bustling Inn interrupted with horror. His dreams for weeks had been plagued with images of horrible things - darkness rising, fires burning, gold rings and dark blood all swirling in his mind. Throughout them, he’d had two overlapping images, ceaseless and inexplicable: a Hobbit, soft and kind, and an Orc with suspiciously similar features. 

_ Smeagol,  _ the name in his mind echoed. A Hobbit of fable, banished from the Shire for killing his brother over a birthday gift, cited as the reason Hobbits  _ give _ gifts on their name-days instead of receiving them. If he still lived - if something was able to keep him alive, and twist him as the Orc in his dreams claimed, that did not bode well. Only one trinket came to mind, reinforced by the violent images of fire and doom from the weeks before.

This Orc was hunting the One Ring. 

_ Bilbo,  _ his mind whispered, showing him once again the vision of a Hobbit crying over a fallen Thorin Oakenshield, fields around them war-torn and filled with corpses of five races.  _ Bilbo Baggins. Remember his name, for when he forgets! _

Gandalf did not know what strange and cruel fate this creature faced, but the Valar clearly wished to prevent it happening again - and thus Gandalf had been tasked as his keeper. 

After dreaming of his fate for a month, though, Gandalf was more than willing to help. 

  
  
  


Bilbo’s party rode out, and even at a (comparatively) leisurely pace, they reached the goblin caves in a matter of hours. Bilbo retraced his steps from memory to find the hidden exit from Gollum’s space, which he made his way back through, leaving the party at the entrance. 

“I am not in danger here,” he told them, hoping it sounded more confident a statement than it actually was. “I am going to retrieve what I came for, and I will be right back. It shouldn’t take very long at all.” 

They were somewhat reluctant, but clearly not too intimidated by the caves, because they didn’t put up much of a fight. 

Bilbo made his way through the tunnels, Orcish blade clutched in one hand, scanning the stone passages for any sign of life. 

Eventually, he heard the faint scuffle of Gollum skittering about, and paused, looking around for the creature.

Orcish eyes, while somewhat poor in the light, worked quite well at night, and Bilbo could see the caves around him almost as sharply as he would have seen them if he had his Hobbit eyes in full daylight. 

“Gollum!” He called out into the caves. “Smeagol!”

The grey creature dropped down in front of him, staring up at him with his large glassy eyes narrowed. “It calls us, Precious,” he murmured. “But we don’t knows it. It’s an Orc, Precious! But it’s in our caves. What does it wants?” 

“Smeagol,” Bilbo repeated. “You’ve been gone from home a long time.”

Gollum looked up at him, face contorting as he processed the words. “Smeagol?” he repeated. “Yes! Yes, Precious, we are Smeagol!” He twitched, face forming a scowl, as his head snapped to one side. “No, no Smeagol, no Hobbitses. Only us and the birthday present!” 

“Your birthday present,” Bilbo muttured. “That birthday present was not a gift at all, Smeagol. You killed your brother for it, and it is still twisting you.”

Gollum’s spine stiffened, as he looked up, suspicious eyes sliding back into a glare. “It taunts us, Precious.”

“I do not,” Bilbo countered. “I seek to help you. Orcs will come for you, to take and torture you and steal your present. I can help you protect it -  _ if  _ you come with me.”

“Yes!” Gollum yelled, scrambling to crouch down at Bilbo’s feet. “We go with the Orcses, yes! We keep our Precious!” 

“Good,” Bilbo breathed. “Come with me, outside, into the night. I have other Orcs with me, and we have a goal in mind for travel. The farther you get from here, and the longer you stay with us, the safer your present will be.”

Gollum scuttled out of the caves along with Bilbo, and just like that, they were on their way to a brighter future. 

  
  


“This bodes well,” Balin said, voice full of false cheer as he looked out onto a torrential downpour. “We begin the most important quest of our lives with thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and a shower straight from-...”

“Balin,” Thorin interrupted, looking to where his friend rode beside him. “We have disputed every aspect of this journey so far. I know it is not ideal, but beginning in rain is our only choice if we do not wish to be further delayed.” 

“Not every aspect,” Balin argued. “Only the one. You cannot let your guard down with this Orc, laddie. Not for a moment.”

“I will not,” the king replied. “I will trust in Gandalf, but I will first trust my own judgement - and my own weapons. I will not allow a single beast, nor seven, nor a  _ hundred  _ to stop me in my quest. Erebor will be ours again, my friend. I will not accept otherwise.”

A tense and fearful hush fell over the company, and the journey was begun in silence. 

Meanwhile, in the back of the parade of ponies, Gandalf sat on the back of the only horse, holding up a letter to a bird sent by Radagast. 

“Fly fast,” he told the owl. “The fate of many depends on the beat of your wings.” 

  
  


The Battle of Five Armies raged around him, bodies falling as fast as he could spot them - faster than he could identify their faces. Any one of them could have been an acquaintance, ally, or even friend, but he could not afford to stop and check. There was one face he would not need even a second to place, he knew it so well, and that was who he was searching for.

Bilbo Baggins ducked beneath the swinging arm of an Orc soldier, as he saw in the distance the telltale black mane of hair that marked one Thorin Oakenshield.

Thorin stood, heaving, over the corpse of Azog the Pale, fingers clenched tightly around the handle of his sword.    
“Thorin!” Bilbo breathed, but instead of a relieved call, it came out an almost threatening growl. An Orcish voice, tearing through his mouth without his permission.

Thorin turned around, face twisting in hate and disgust, as he raised his sword. 

Bilbo barely had a moment to react before the blade struck down, and he slumped to the cold ground as the eagles cried out to announce their arrival. 

  
  


“Burzash!” 

Bilbo sat straight up, hands scrambling to the side and claiming one of the throwing-knives from the set Mokum had gifted him. “What is it?” he called, looking around, blinking to try and adjust his eyes to the bright light of midday. “What happened?”   
“Calm yourself,” Durz murmured, hand patting the top of his head. “It is only a bird.”

He frowned, looking to where she gestured. “A bird?”

Sure enough, an owl sat low on a branch, staring right at him.

“Owls do not stand about in the day,” he commented. “Certainly not this close to a camp.” He stood, approaching the bird, watching as its feathered head tipped consideringly to one side.

In its talons, it clutched a sealed letter. 

“A message,” he murmured. He held out a hand. “Is this for me?”

The owl dropped it into his hands immediately, and then settled on the branch, as though waiting for orders.

Bilbo flipped over the letter, sucking in a breath as he recognized the seal. 

The letter was from  _ Gandalf.  _

Did the wizard remember him, by chance? The Maia had much knowledge of the world beyond, and it would make sense if crossing timelines fell within his expertise. 

His fragile hope shattered with the remains of his heart when he actually opened the letter, and began to read.

 

_ To Burzash the Orc, formerly known as Bilbo the Hobbit,  _

_ Over the past few weeks, I have been plagued with the most terrible nightmares - which, for you, I fear are much more than dreams. If what I am seeing is to truly unfold, I beg you, help me in helping you prevent it. I travel with a company of Dwarves my dreams claim you are familiar with, and I would have you join us, your present company included. Their leader, whose name I dare not write where it could be discovered by those with ill will, has tentatively agreed to accept help outside standard ‘civilized’ races.  _

_ I hold my companions on the southernmost end of the Weather Hills, just beyond Bree. If you are amicable, I would ask you meet us there. _

_ Knowing how fast both bird and Warg can travel, I shall hold here for three full days. At sunset of the third, if I have not received reply from the owl nor seen your face in the distance, I shall consider my offers rejected and move forth with the knowledge we are to be operating alone.  _

_ Somehow, I find it hard to doubt I will see you. Whatever Valar blessed your return to this plane, they had faith in you - in the face of that, I find it hard to think anything less than highly of you.  _

_ Regards,  _

_ Gandalf the Grey _

  
  


Bilbo let out a slow breath through his nose, looking around the camp - watching six Orcs stand tense, awaiting his orders, and a small grey abomination of a former Hobbit ignore them all while tearing viciously at a raw fish it had pulled from the river. 

“Get me something to write with, please,” he told Mokum, when the Orc approached. “And get Timorsham to wake back up - we’re heading to Bree.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  I doodled what Orc!Bilbo looks like for ya

Thorin gave a frustrated huff as Gandalf called for them to stop, riding up to the wizard’s side.

“Why do we halt here?” he demanded. “We need to keep moving.”

“We are not yet noticed, Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf replied easily. “We await the arrival of the remainder of our company.”

“The Orcs,” Thorin filled in. “I wondered where they would be joining us. You think they will truly come to the aid of Dwarves?”

A bird cried out, and both men looked to see a large owl swooping in, a piece of tattered cloth clutched in one talon.

“Yes,” Gandalf said, sounding amused. “I do believe they will.”

  
  


For the second time in as many days, the Orc party rode without pause - the trip would only take a few hours at top speed, Bilbo estimated, given the distance was fairly even with that between Mount Gundabad and Mirkwood. They’d reach Gandalf by nightfall, and Bilbo would see his long-dead friends again. His heart was light with hope and heavy with grief at the same time, resulting in a twisting in his stomach that threatened to spill over.

Mokum served as a good distraction, if only because he could not seem to comprehend the plan Bilbo was passing on to him. 

“A  _ Dwarf,  _ though?” Mokum demanded, for possibly the fifth time.    
“Thirteen of them,” Bilbo called back over the cry of the wind. “And a wizard.”

Mokum gave a harsh laugh, the sound almost weary. “You’re mad! We’re going to sprout arrows like flowers the second we hit the horizon.” 

“Don’t be silly!” Bilbo returned easily. “They have only one archer.”

Mokum groaned, and Bilbo laughed to himself. At least a change in body did not strip him of his cheek. 

  
  


From his spot atop the hill they’d chosen to wait on, Thorin watched figures begin to appear in the distance. A grey line moving swiftly toward them, slowly revealing more details, such as large Wargs and twisted bodies. Thorin had to force himself not to reach for his blade, instead simply tensing, waiting for a sign that these were those they awaited.

Gandalf stepped forward, and Thorin looked up to see the wizard smiling widely - that was that, then. These were the right Orcs. 

The Orcs reached the hillside in a matter of moments, and dismounted, while Gandalf led Thorin down to greet them. 

“Bilbo, my dear,” Gandalf called out. “I see your full party joined you.” 

The Orcs stood almost exactly inline, but Gandalf very clearly addressed the tallest one. Thorin looked him over, noting oddly soft features for an Orc, and wondering how exactly this one managed to avoid the ragged cut every other beast seemed to have to their bodies. More than that, he was the only one among them  _ clean _ : each of his companions was soaked with blood and filth, but he stood relatively well-groomed, with loose gold curls coming off one side of his head and tanned skin kept clear. Thorin frowned. Rarely did a leader ever look better put together than his followers while still maintaining any sort of honor. Not, of course, that he was staking much on the Orcs being  _ honorable.  _

Thorin was snapped from his observations as the Orc leader - Bilbo or Burzash, depending, Thorin recalled - snarl and bite something out in harsh Black Speech. Thorin bristled, but then looked to Gandalf in confusion as the wizard  _ laughed.  _

A growl came from the Orc, and Thorin looked back, and saw him shaking in rage.

...Wait.

No.

The Orcs shoulders were shaking, and a rumbling noise was tearing from his throat - but that was a  _ laugh.  _ Not a cruel one, or a mocking taunt, but instead a noise the creature seemed unable to control. 

“My dear friend,” Gandalf said, after the laughter eased. “A wizard obeys the plans of no man.”

Thorin frowned again, because he wasn’t really sure he liked the implication of ‘ _ plans.’  _ “What are you up to, wizard?”

Burzash snapped glazed brown eyes to him, and Thorin watched as the beast’s face went slack with a strange sort of look the king could not name. 

The Orc beside Burzash nudged him with an elbow, growling something in their cursed language that had their leader spinning to yell at him, and Thorin let out a low sigh.

This was  _ not  _ going to end well. 

  
  


Mokum had some nerve, implying such vulgar things in front of Thorin. Or, more so, in front of  _ Gandalf,  _ since the wizard could actually understand. 

Bilbo had taken to chewing him out thoroughly, to the point Pakgu had dubbed them a dynamic duo of ‘Mokum and Maukum,’ - words that translated to ‘Hatred’ and ‘Fighting,’ respectively. A joke that was quite funny in Black Speech, but did not translate well, and he decided he wouldn’t bother trying to explain it to anyone who did not speak the dark tongue should they question it. Not that he really  _ could _ .

Which brought Bilbo’s mind to another point: he had tried to speak out in Westron, to Gandalf, but the words had come out in Black Speech. The strange translation magic in his head made it hard for him to speak another tongue, since he was not  _ purposely  _ talking in Black Speech, just having his words translated by Eru’s parting gift. Which meant that however long they were among Dwarves, Bilbo would struggle to get his words understood. 

Gandalf cleared his throat in the middle of Bilbo’s ranting to interrupt, giving them a small smile.  “The Dwarves wait on the other side of the hill,” he told them. “We told them not to expect us until the morning, as we did not know what time you would arrive. As such, we may take this time to rest, since they are likely doing the same.”

Bilbo sighed, because he  _ was  _ tired - endless travel did that to a person - but he was also eager to ‘meet’ the Dwarves again. 

Then again, they’d probably want to kill him, at least a little. 

Maybe resting first would be a good thing, after all. 

The Orcs set up their camp, bedrolls arranged in a loose circle. Bilbo had noticed it was their default sleeping method the first night by Mirkwood, and adjusted accordingly. It made sense, he supposed, that Orcs would sleep practically on top of one another - with how light of sleepers they were, any time one woke, the rest were sure to follow. A wonderful defense system, if nothing else.

Bilbo simply enjoyed the knowledge he had friendly souls close at hand when he lay down to sleep. It made it a bit easier to rest. 

Bilbo caught a glimpse of Timorsham shifting anxiously where they’d settled the Wargs, and sighed, before whistling to summon him. The supposed warbeast barreled into his chest in a blink, licking happily at his cheek. Bilbo laughed and scratched at his ears obligingly. 

“My good pup,” Bilbo cooed. “You and your friends have been working hard, carrying us about.” He tipped his head forward, tapping his forehead to the Warg’s. “And you’re still keeping an eye on our guest, yes?”

Timorsham did not answer - not that Bilbo really expected him to - but Bilbo looked over to see Gollum crouched in the center of the Wargs, a tiny sliver of grey hidden among multicolored furs. The Ring-twisted soul was clawing at one of the side-bags of a Warg, and Bilbo figured he was probably in search of the raw fish he’d hidden before they left the river camp. Bilbo used ‘hidden’ loosely - with the stench of untreated, unwrapped meat stuffed in a leather sack, they all knew full well the fish were there.

“I still don’t know what that creature is meant to be,” Mokum drawled, dropping down beside Bilbo, onto his own fur bedroll. “It looks even uglier than a Goblin, but it seems smarter than one, in an unhinged sort of way.”

“He is cursed,” Bilbo confessed. “I knew of the curse upon him, and I sought to find a cure for it. I could have waited and taken it back to him, I suppose, but there was no guarantee I wouldn’t miss him entirely.”

“I see,” his friend murmured. “This is one of your experiments, then.” 

Bilbo couldn’t really say what that even meant, let alone if it was true, so he simply hummed noncommittally. 

“Well, he seems harmless,” Mokum declared. “Unlike some of our ‘guests.’”

“Technically,” Bilbo said. “ _ We  _ are the  _ Dwarves’  _ guests.”

“Don’t remind me.” He looked to Bilbo. “Let’s talk of the wizard, instead. He called you friend, if I caught the word rightly, and understood your speech as well as you did his.” 

“Ah, yes, Gandalf,” Bilbo said. “He does not know me personally, but he has heard tales.” It was not a technically lie, so Bilbo did not feel too bad about it. “As for the languages, Gandalf knows every spoken tongue in Arda, I believe. He simply prefers not to speak black tongue out loud.” 

“And you?” Mokum prompted. “You appear to be fluent in the tongue of Men.”

Bilbo sniffed. “Westron is the language of all, not just Men,” he corrected. “And I know it perfectly. I also speak Sindarin - the language of Elves.” He also had the Shire-common Hobbitish knowledge all his kin had, but that was hardly a language at all. More of a dialect, really. 

Mokum frowned at him. “I thought Azog burned your books,” he said, which was new knowledge to Bilbo. “How did you learn those?”

“Magic,” Bilbo said, and smiled as Mokum laughed, excepting the answer as a joke.

Little did he know it was actually the truest statement Bilbo could have made. 

  
  


Thorin watched the cursed beasts that Gandalf called friends form camp, arranging themselves in a circle and settling in with no word to anyone save each other. Not, of course, that they would be understood if they tried to speak to him, even if Gandalf seemed to follow their tongue well enough. 

He didn’t trust them, which was about what he expected. What was abnormal about the situation was his interactions with them.

He’d expected them to be snappish and growling at his presence, unhappy at the arrangement, clearly only going along with it because it benefitted them in some way. 

What he got were six Orcs who seemed utterly indifferent to his existence, and a seventh who had been watching him for most of the evening with a strange look to his face. He’d seen a similar look on his own Company’s faces on occasion, when Balin took to reciting fantastical stories about him. That was a strange sort of disbelieving awe - which could  _ not  _ be what this Orc was intending to portray.

The beast’s lips were twisted in a perpetual snarl like the one he’d worn speaking to Gandalf, and Thorin eventually realized that it was meant to be a  _ smile.  _ Between that expression and his eerie laughter, Thorin got the impression that the Orc was trying to look friendly, and simply didn’t know how to make his body cooperate. 

Burzash was confusing. Thorin had watched him for  _ hours  _ and still couldn’t puzzle out what drove him. Orcs were selfish, cruel, and heartless - beasts without honor or loyalty. But this one supposedly sought no personal reward, other than the defeat of his own enemy. This one he’d seen petting a giant Warg as though it were a housecat. This one repeatedly checked up on both the others of his party and, by the looks he kept shooting across the field they’d settled in, Gandalf and Thorin as well. 

This Orc was up to something, had some sort of deeper plan, and Thorin did not like not knowing what it was. 

“Gandalf,” Thorin addressed the wizard quietly. “You said the tall one can speak the common tongue?”

Gandalf hummed, considering. “Perhaps speak is not the right term, as he did not use it when I did, like I expected him to. But he understands it, certainly. And a great deal of other things, I’d expect, as well. At least one other language, if memory serves.” 

That was cryptic, but Thorin didn’t bother asking - Gandalf would either tell him or he wouldn’t, and his mind would be made to which without Thorin ever speaking up. 

Instead, the Dwarf king abandoned his own bedroll and headed across the camp to where the Orcs were gathered, determined to get answers. 

  
  


Bilbo hummed to himself a song he’d written while in Rivendell, but never sung aloud. The words circled in his head, a one-sided lament to lost love, a ballad to never fall on any other ear. 

A shadow came over him, and he looked up, freezing as he met the tense and hateful stare of Thorin Oakenshield.

Deep in his heart, something died. The last time he’d seen that look he’d been held over the ramparts, half wishing Thorin would simply drop him, if only to end the ache in his chest. 

“The wizard,” Thorin bit out, without preamble, “claims you speak our tongue, but you refuse to use it.”

Bilbo twitched. He had the feeling Gandalf had said no such thing, and Thorin had simply filled in the blanks on his own. 

“We are working together at the behest of the wizard and for no other reason,” Thorin told him. “And I warn you now, none in my party will trust one who will not speak to him.”

Bilbo sort of wanted to roll his eyes. Instead, he reached up, tapping against his mouth. “I cannot make myself make the sounds,” he said, in Black Speech, even though he knew the words would be meaningless to the king. 

“Your mouth?” Thorin questioned. “Ah, of course. Understanding a language and being able to speak it are different things. You seem to be unfamiliar with the work of your own face, given your expressions - I’m not surprised you cannot pronounce Westron words.”

Bilbo wondered if it was possible that Thorin had gotten  _ ruder  _ with a time change. Probably, considering he was now a creature far lower in the Dwarf’s opinion. 

Still. One would think, given that Bilbo was sharpening throwing knives when the other approached, he would at least  _ attempt  _ tact. 

Thorin was still staring blankly at him after a long pause, clearly waiting for some sort of response - non-verbal as it might be - and Bilbo chose the private satisfaction of not giving him one, instead returning to the blade in his hands. He picked up a tune again, this time humming an old lullaby he’d written for a young Frodo, because thinking of mourning Thorin while right in front of him seemed silly. 

“I was unaware Orcs had songs,” Thorin commented, just as Bilbo had started to forget his audience.

Bilbo looked up, an eyebrow raised. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said Thorin  _ wanted  _ to speak to him.

Thorin scowled at him, and Bilbo let out a low breath.

Clearly, this was going to take some work.

He tipped his head back, letting out a sharp whistle, and watched Thorin scramble back as large feet pounded their way over.

  
  


Thorin considered running for a brief moment as the beast summoned his Warg, and settled on pulling his sword and holding his ground. The Orc paid him no attention at all, instead moving to kneel upon the ground, hands out.

The Warg, large and rust-colored, launched itself at him, burying its large face into the creature’s neck.

Thorin blinked. That...was not what he’d expected. 

Burzash looked up at him, then, and pat the back of the Warg. “Timorsham,” he said, pronouncing the unfamiliar word carefully. When Thorin didn’t react, he pointed to the Dwarf, and carefully pronounced, “Thorin.” He then returned his hand to the Warg, repeating the first word twice more.

...The Orc..had a  _ name  _ for the Warg. Like a pet. 

Burzash stood up, reaching up to the tree hanging over him, and pulled down a branch to pluck off a budding flower. He then stooped back down to drop the bud carefully on the Warg’s head, leaving it sitting gently there. He murmured a quiet command in the dark tongue, and then plucked off a petal, holding it out to the Warg.

The Warg took it in his mouth, and then simply...held it. Waiting eagerly for a new command.

Burzash held out his hand, and the Warg dropped the petal back into it.

It was undamaged. Not a single tooth had beared down hard enough to pierce it.

Burzash held it up then, to Thorin, and tore it easily between two fingers. Showing it was fragile, showing how impressive the Warg’s control was.

Thorin’s breath caught. He couldn’t tell if it was meant to be a threat, showing how firm his control over the Warg was, or a comfort of the same, showing that no one would harm him without command from their leader.

Either way, Thorin disliked it. Burzash handed him the pieces of torn petal, and simply walked away, the Warg trailing happily after him.

...This would not end well, Thorin feared. 

  
  


Bilbo dropped down to his bedroll, Timorsham happily dropping onto his lap, and looked to Mokum. “I see why you were doubtful of this plan,” he admitted. “I’m fairly certain Thorin would sooner like me dead than allied to him. 

Mokum snorted. “I don’t know why you didn’t see that coming. No Dwarf will ever see value in an Orc, even one as gentle-hearted as you.”

Bilbo sighed. “I’m hardly an Orc,” he muttered, feeling lost enough to admit to it. “This body isn’t... _ mine.  _ It is just where I am housed.” 

Mokum watched him curiously. “I have never felt such a thing,” he said, “but I can see it plain as day with you. You have a softness that spills from the cracks in your skin, showing you to be too kind to be considered the same as the lowest of us. It was clear after the battle with Azog’s scouts: every death haunted you. You wanted rid of the blood as soon as possible.”

“I’ve never liked death,” Bilbo told him, figuring the conversation wouldn’t hurt even if Mokum was  _ clearly  _ misunderstanding what exactly Bilbo had meant. “If one can find a solution without death involved at all, that is the way I’d choose. You don’t have to rip out a plant from the roots to get its fruit - why should you have to end a life to gain peace?” 

“And that, my captain, is why you lead us.” Mokum clapped a hand onto his shoulder. “You saved each of us at some point with that kindness.” At Bilbo’s bewildered look, he laughed. “Don’t look at me that way. Durz would have been sold to the highest bidder, and it took one word from Pakgu for you to give up your gathered contraband in exchange for the contract. You gave her the title for her own, a feat unprecedented.” 

Bilbo swallowed, feeling guilty -  _ he  _ hadn’t done anything at all. 

“You were the one to get Brogud the books he learned medicine from. You were the one to step between me and Azog before you even knew me, taking half my punishment upon yourself. Each of us owes you our lives and livelihood.” 

Bilbo looked away, the shame of his stolen credit rolling in his gut. “I owe my life to you, as well,” Bilbo told him, because he’d have been dead on the first day he woke without help. 

“That is the beauty of a brotherhood,” Mokum said. “Neither one of us need pay the other back for the deeds done in kindness. We owe each other, yes, but that is not why we remain. We remain side-by-side because when the sun rises each day we stick with the ones who would watch our backs.” He then turned, giving Bilbo a stern look. “And as one watching yours, I’d warn you: stop watching the Dwarf with that pained look. Taking his hatred of you to heart will only bring you pain. You needn’t waste time on one who cannot look beyond your surface.”

“Well, to be fair to him,” Bilbo said, weakly, “the surface is quite bad.”

Mokum nudged him. “Dwarves mine twisted rock to get to precious metals and beautiful gems. If they cannot do the same for a kind heart, that is their own problem.”

Bilbo smiled, softly. Once again, he thanked Eru for his kindness - a friend such as this was a valuable commodity. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting shit so feel free to bug me on tumblr @spicyreyes


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (kicks dirt over timestamps) what do you mean its been two months

Bilbo stood at the foot of Mount Doom, looking up to watch as Frodo and Sam desperately scrambled up the edge. Haggard and tired, they were moving on sheer determination alone, and he could see the taint of the ring upon their very souls.

He went to follow, to help, when he felt the ground shake beneath his feet.

“No,” he whispered, looking up the side of the volcano. The fires inside were starting to bubble and pop, rising over the rock occasionally as they stirred.

It was going to erupt. 

“Frodo!” he called, desperate to save his ward. “Samwise! Sam, Sam,  _ get Frodo,  _ Sam!”

Each word twisted its way out of his mouth, tearing from him and turning into an Orc’s harsh growl. The Hobbits on the mountain scrambled faster, eyes wide with fear as they thought they were being chased. 

The lava poured over just as Bilbo screamed himself awake.

  
  


Thorin’s hand was on his blade before he even registered what had woken him, and once the sound caught up to him, he wasn’t even sure that was the right reaction. What in all of Arda could make an  _ Orc  _ scream like that?

He looked to the side, expecting to see some great horror, but instead simply saw the Orcs bunching together around their leader, who was being coaxed to drink something and shaking heavily all the while.

Thorin frowned, walking over to Gandalf, who was watching the proceedings with a look of grieved understanding. “What is happening?” he asked. “Is the Orc sick?”

Gandalf shook his head. “No, my dear Bilbo is perfectly sound of body and mind. This...this is a much darker issue. Shadows follow him wherever he goes, digging deep into his soul, burying themselves into every crack and crevice. One cannot fight the evils he has and not come away scarred.”

Thorin’s lips pressed into a thin line. He had never considered an Orc could be battle-weary, as vicious as the creatures were. Perhaps that was the reason for his peculiarities - he had lost the will for destruction that fueled his brethren, and was taking an alternate path, albeit an odd one. 

Gandalf straightened, then, and Thorin followed his gaze to see a slightly shaken Burzash approaching them. 

“Are you alright, Bilbo?” Gandalf asked. “I cannot imagine the things you must see behind closed eyes.”

The Orc said something in response, and Thorin was not well versed enough in Black Speech to tell if the words wavered. 

He was clearly not needed, however, so he left, returning to his own camp area.

  
  
  


Bilbo watched Thorin leave, and then looked to Gandalf. “I cannot speak to him.”

Gandalf looked shocked, suddenly. “Why, Bilbo, I didn’t know you could speak in Quenya.” 

Bilbo frowned. “I cannot. Only Sindarin and Westron, and I can’t make the words out loud.”

Gandalf blinked. “But I’ve heard Quenya just now, again. That’s most certainly the language you are using.” He then swapped to Quenya, himself, and asked, “Are you certain you cannot understand?”

Bilbo huffed out a breath as his mind performed another echoed translation. “I can understand it indeed, it seems.” He explained, quickly, how Eru’s gift worked with Black Speech, and how he could not command the translations. 

Gandalf hummed, thinking it over. “Magic, my boy, is all about will,” he said. “The will that is strongest wins out, be it the caster or the cursed. Perhaps the gift of Eru is that you may be heard by those who would listen - and so you can find the words to speak to those of us willing to hear you.” 

“So I cannot speak to Thorin?” Bilbo surmized. “He will never care for my words, not with this face.” 

Gandalf pat him on the shoulder, giving him a sympathetic look. “Fear not, my friend. Even the hardest of hearts may be softened with time, and the Valar would not give you a quest with no hope. When you must be heard, you will be.”

  
  


After Bilbo’s harsh awakening, no one was in the mood to continue sleeping, and so they packed up to cross the hills to meet the Dwarves. 

Before they left, though, Bilbo slunk off to where the Wargs still hid his cursed companion. 

He found Gollum lying still, and panicked for a moment before seeing him twitch - he was  _ sleeping.  _ Bilbo was a bit surprised, and then ashamed of his own reaction - Smeagol was, at the core, a Hobbit, and a Hobbit needed sleep. The Ring could taint his soul and mind all day long, but his body could only change so much.

Gollum muttered something, and Bilbo leaned close to listen, eventually able to make out a single, sad sound.

_ “Deagol,”  _ the creature was whimpering. His hands curled into fists and then back out again, fingers stretching out like they were going to grab. 

Bilbo’s heart broke for him, and he reminded himself that he nearly  _ became  _ this, nearly damned Frodo to it, nearly kept the curse ongoing for centuries to come.

He grit his teeth, feeling a determination he’d felt only a few times before settle hard in his gut. He would keep the Company alive, that was his first goal - but his priority, his end-all, the thing he must keep in mind above all else was the Ring. It had to be destroyed, no matter the cost. 

Bilbo would walk unarmed into Mordor and swim in the fires of Mount Doom if it meant no one would ever suffer the fate of the poor former Hobbit in front of him. 

“From one tainted Hobbit to another,” Bilbo whispered. “I swear, I will end this.”

The words flowed out in an archaic dialect of Hobbitish, one Bilbo knew of only from the oldest of books, but they came clear as day to him - and Smeagol as well, judging by the way the lines of his wrinkled face smoothed ever so slightly.

  
  
  


“I see them!” Kili called out, patting his hands excitedly on the top of his brother’s head.

Fili shifted, throwing Kili off his shoulders. “And no doubt they see you, now, genius. Yell a little louder next time.”

Kili ignored him, practically vibrating with excitement. “Oooh, we’re gonna meet  _ Orcs  _ that don’t  _ instantly  _ want to kill us. This is such a good chance to learn about them.”

“Right?” Ori agreed. “Do they have a culture? Do they have religions? What are their relationships with each other like? What are their ranks? What-...”   
“I meant more like how to kill them really easily,” Kili interrupted. “But I’m sure all that is cool, too.”

Ori flushed. “I’m just excited to learn something no one else knows.”

Fili pat Ori’s shoulder comfortingly. “No worries, Ori - if we have to kill them, I’ll make sure to pin one down so you can interview it.”

Ori went to reply, but was cut off by Nori, calling out  _ “They’re coming over the hill!”  _

It was time.

  
  
  


“Dwarves are so tiny,” Durz observed, walking beside Bilbo.

They chose to travel on foot instead of on Warg, because the wolf-like creatures really didn’t have a concept of a slow pace, and running full-speed at a group of Dwarves was a good way to get stabbed. It was nice, because Bilbo got to actually feel grass under his feet for a while.

Not, of course, that the grass was  _ entirely  _ comfortable - he mourned the loss of his Hobbit soles. 

“How do they even survive?” Durz continued. “Small Orcs are at least built steady.”

“Much smaller and softer creatures exist,” Bilbo reminded her. 

“The latter being you,” Mokum piped in, from his other side.

Bilbo rolled his eyes, before continuing, “Dwarves are hardy. They compare themselves to stone a lot, and they’re not really wrong. Dwarves are probably going to be the last race in all of Middle Earth still standing, even if most of Arda keeps trying to kill them.” 

“So they’re like roaches,” the female Orc summarized. “Good to know.”

Bilbo sighed. One day, he was going to learn how to talk to these people. 

  
  
  


“Oh, in Mahal’s name, look at  _ that,”  _ Ori breathed, straining to watch as the Orcs appeared on the hillside. “They’re all so different. Different heights, different bodies, different skin tones - I wonder if there are subcultures?”

“One way to find out,” Nori said, swinging an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Let’s spy on ‘em.”

Ori grimaced, not liking the idea of  _ spying  _ on creatures known for bloodlust and violence. “Can’t we just ask?”

“Don’t be silly, Ori,” Nori said. “That’d be the boring way.”

“Hush, Nori!” Fili called. “They’re here.”

“Friends,” Gandalf called out to the Dwarves, as the two groups met. “May I introduce Bilbo Baggins, and his party of rebels.” 

The leader of the Orcs, a tall and fearsome looking brute, gave them a small nod that might have been deference. The Dwarves wondered at it - an Orc with respect to a Dwarf. Half of them thought it their right, and the other half wondered if they were being mocked. 

And then, of course, was Ori, who was  _ fascinated.  _

“Ah, Master Orc,” Ori said, moving forward to the front of their party, ignoring the outraged noises of his eldest brother behind him. “Welcome to the company. It’s nice to know you don’t  _ all  _ want to kill us, heh…” 

The Orc snarled, and Ori reeled back, only to realize that the expression was...wrong, somehow.

Oh. It was a  _ smile.  _

Ori smiled back, weakly, and the Orc nodded to him. 

And then, amazingly, he spoke.

“I am Bilbo,” he greeted, in halting and uneven Westron. “Or Burzash, to my party. I am here to help, however I can.”

Thorin looked thunderous, from where he stood to Bilbo’s side, and the Dwarves present wondered what the Orc had done to earn such ire from an offer of help. 

Thorin, meanwhile, wondered exactly why the Orc had been acting as though Westron was beyond him, and if it was simply to mess with the Dwarf king. 

“You speak Westron!” Ori cried, happily clapping his hands together. “Great! Would you answer me if I asked you questions? There’s so much I want to learn.”

Dori yanked Ori back by the collar, snapping at him, “Be  _ quiet _ . The last thing you need to do is go about studying Orcs.”

It may have been Ori’s imagination, but Burzash appeared  _ upset  _ by that. “I see no reason not to reply to your questions, if I know the answers. Ask what you like.”

“We don’t have time for an interview,” Thorin interrupted. “We have wasted enough time as it is. We must start moving if we are to get through the mountains in any reasonable time.”

Burzash looked over to Gandalf, a strangely knowing look on his face. “You have plans for visiting Elrond, don’t you?”

Gandalf nodded, folding his hands over the top of his staff in thought. “Indeed I do. He would be a most useful ally in this - not the least of which because he would be able to read your map, Master Oakenshield.”

Thorin bristled. “I will not seek the help of  _ Elves.”  _

The Orc leader tipped his head, and offered a strange twisted smile. The next thing he said came out in Black Speech, and his party laughed while Thorin glared harshly.

“What does he say?” Thorin asked Gandalf. “If he will not speak to me, let me know his words, at least.”

“He simply found it amusing,” Gandalf said, “That you would deem the help of Orcs more acceptable than that of the creatures they are said to be made from.” 

Thorin stared, apparently at a loss for words.

“Well, then,” Gandalf said. “To Rivendell.”

Ori couldn’t wait. Two new cultures to explore, both enemies he’d never normally get to learn about,  _ and  _ he was on a grand and noble quest. It was exciting just thinking about it.

  
  
  
  


“Master Orc,” a voice called out to him, and Bilbo turned to see Ori riding up beside him, looking terribly nervous.

“Bilbo, if you would,” he told the young dwarf, as gently as he could manage. “Or ‘Burzash,’ if you must.”

“Bilbo, then,” Ori said. “I am Ori, at your service.”

Bilbo inclined his head in return. “At yours and your family’s, I believe is the proper response?”

Ori blinked. “Ah...yes.” He shifted, eyeing Bilbo carefully. “Not many people know that. It’s not a secret, but no one really pays attention.”

BIlbo snorted. “I’m well aware of the tendencies of others toward prejudices. I’ve just never seen the point in them, quite honestly.” 

“You don’t mind any race, Ma- um, Bilbo?” Ori asked. “Most everyone has at least one they aren’t fond of.”

Bilbo considered it. “Goblins are little more than ravenous pests, from what I’ve seen, but I’d be willing to reconsider if there was enough evidence to the contrary. Other than that…” he waved around, gesturing to their mixed party. “I’ve seen plenty of good and bad in people regardless of their shapes and sizes. Each race has something to offer.”

Ori looked thoughtful. “We always claim that Dwarves are cut from stone - strong and unyielding. Most people see that as us being cold and stubborn.”

“All races are cut from a certain cloth, and none are good or bad on their own,” Bilbo insisted. “Dwarves  _ are _ stone: they are strong, tough, unrelenting - for better or worse. They can be cold as ice or warm like a hearth, but they only do either in reaction to what they’re presented with. A stone can be cold on a cold day and warm in the sun, and a Dwarf can be kind to friends and cruel to enemies.” He gestured to the Orcs of the party. “Orcs, I believe, are of fire. They burn hot, whether passionate with love or anger or whatever happens to be upon them at the moment, and while they’re most known as dangerous - a forest fire, dragon’s breath, an all-consuming inferno - they can also be protective. They can be campfires to keep you safe, torches to light your path, a hearth to warm a home. Just because these are not their most common uses does not mean they are any less worthy of note.” 

“And what of other races? Men and Elves?” Ori asked, seeming enthused with this new philosophy. 

Bilbo hummed, thinking it over. “Men are water, if we’re keeping with elements. They can come in a flood and destroy everything in their path, or they can nurture it and keep it alive. Flowing water can tear rocks up from the riverbed or slowly wear them down to smooth stones. They are adaptable, able to choose their path and their approach, and reconsider when presented with any choice. A thundering waterfall can lead to a peaceful river, and a fierce Man can show the strangest of calm.” He thought further, before offering, “Elves are air. They flow freely, unhindered, watching the world that they believe cannot affect them in any way. But an intangible force adjusts to being unmoved, and when it faces a force, it knows no way to yield. A change in current, however small, can meet so much resistance that it becomes a tornado. Similarly, I’ve never met an Elf who would easily change their own path, or allow it to be changed for them.” He nodded to Gandalf. “I would put Gandalf and other wizards down as animals, as they are both subject to the will of the elements - the other races - and the force that keeps them all balanced and enduring.” 

There was a pause as Ori took all that in, before he looked back up at Bilbo. “You were not always an Orc, Gandalf said. What were you prior? Which race?”

“None of those I’ve mentioned,” Bilbo said. “I was a Hobbit. A darn good one, if I may say so myself. Quite respectable.” He thought, then, of the whispers of  _ Mad Baggins,  _ and corrected, “Well, to a point. For a part of my life, at least.” Ori looked like he wanted to ask, so Bilbo quickly picked up speaking again. “Anyway! If Hobbits are to be an element….hm. I’d have to go for earth again. Though while Dwarves are stone, Hobbits are more the earth itself. The soil of a garden or the dirt of a yard. We - well, they, I suppose - are known for being full of life and warm and productive, but it is a little-known fact that they are only soft where they choose to be. A Hobbit pressed is like packed dirt or hardened clay - a force with surprising strength. Why, I’ve seen Hobbits survive incredible feats, or display valor unmatched by the strongest of warriors.” He looked to Ori. “I don’t suppose you’d know this, because it’s really a Hobbit’s knowledge, but a field is not meant to turn the same crop forever. You have to constantly change it to keep it healthy, or the soil will start to degrade and dry and become unworkable. Hobbits have that problem, as well, but they don’t heed it. They keep their minds and hearts and front doors tightly closed, and pray the other races of Middle Earth never deem to care about them one way or another.” He smiled down at the young Dwarf. “Did you know that in a Hobbit society, the absolute worst thing to be declared is a Disturber of the Peace?”

“A what?” Ori asked. 

“Disturber of the Peace,” Bilbo repeated. “It means anyone who...well, disturbs the peace. Gandalf here is a notorious Disturber.” 

“Quite right,” Gandalf pitched in, from where his horse rode shortly ahead of them. “I used to visit each Midsummer and show off firework displays, but I took a hobbit lass on a trip to Rivendell once and they never quite forgave me.” 

It was nice to know, Bilbo supposed, that his mother continued to exist in a world where he did not. He was not entirely sure how such a thing would work, but he’d have to look into it another time. He’d ask Gandalf later, he resolved. 

“Hobbits don’t like elves?” Ori asked, latching onto Gandalf’s tangent. 

“Hobbits don’t quite like or dislike anyone, really,” Gandalf told him. “They are a simple people who like their comforts of home and dislike anything which interrupts the enjoyment of such. It is not where she went that caused problems, but that she left at all.”

Ori blinked, then turned to Bilbo. “And you were one of these?”

“That I was!” Bilbo confirmed. “I grew up being told to never  _ ever  _ leave, except perhaps on short walking holidays. But I’ll tell you a secret: I was absolutely awful at sitting still. I kept sneaking out into the woods at night, coming home with hair full of twigs and face caked with dirt and stories of all the creatures I saw. I thought myself mighty adventurous, back then.” He tipped his head back, looking out to the horizon in thought. “Of course, I had to settle down and be a decent Hobbit after a while, but then…”

“Then what?”

Bilbo jumped slightly, looking to Ori’s side, where Fili and Kili had joined his audience, the latter having been the one to speak up. All three young Dwarves were watching with rapt attention, eager for the next detail.

Bilbo laughed. It seemed his storytelling skills had followed him across lifetimes. “Well, then I met the absolute rottenest person I’d ever had the pleasure of serving dinner, and he made a right ass of himself and his friends and left in the morning without the slightest of apologies.” He reached up, rubbing at his nose to hide a grin. “And then I scandalized the Shire by running after them, waving my contract through the air and cheering about adventures.”

The Dwarves laughed. 

“So you went on an adventure?” Ori asked.

“Nevermind that,” Kili cut in. “How did you end up an Orc?”

Bilbo’s good humor went out like a blown candle, and he wove his fingers into Timorsham’s neck fur to ground himself. “I did a foolish, foolish thing, and it cost me much. My body was the least of the prices I paid.” 

The Dwarves could not have been plagued by the same images of fire and death that Bilbo was, but they clearly caught the somber tone, because the time for stories was silently agreed to be done.

The continued their ride from there in silence. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> exposition and character exploration that mainly exists bc christian (me) realized the first time he wrote this he totally glossed over most of the travelling!! whoops

_ My body was the least of the prices I paid. _

Thorin turned the Orc’s words over in his mind when they made camp after their first day of travel, finding himself unable to sleep until he parsed out the meaning of Burzash’s story. 

The Orc leader was...odd. His displays with the warg, his gentle treatment of the younger members of their party, his unusual camaraderie with his fellow Orcs… he defied every expectation Thorin had held of him. 

The only thing Thorin could even remotely consider to be a malicious act was the fact that among the Orcs’ party, Burzash had brought along an extra. It was some sort of demented Goblin creature, with wide eyes and a sickly pallor, that talked to itself constantly and slunk about at the feet of Burzash’s warg. Gandalf had dodged any attempt Thorin made to question its presence, and so he was forced to tentatively accept it and make a point to keep an eye out for any suspicious behaviors.

He also made certain to tell the others to keep count of their food - the creature kept digging out dead fish and tearing into them raw with small razor-like teeth, and Thorin would rather not find out what else it ate. 

He could, in theory, question Burzash directly - either about the creature or anything else Thorin had noticed - but he didn’t think that would get very far. While the Orc occasionally answered Ori or made a comment in passing to Gandalf, he still refused to speak any tongue but his own in most situations, even if it meant he needed all his information to be relayed through Gandalf.

Perhaps that was his point - to create a degree of separation, where they were limited by what Gandalf deemed right to pass along. 

It irked Thorin, especially given that the longest he’d heard the Orc speak in Westron had been rather strangely thoughtful, for a beast of war and malice, and had left him with near endless questions. 

Finally, he gave up on sleep, and hunted down the wizard so that he could satisfy some of his curiosities. 

He stopped, though, and quickly hid behind a tree, as a few feet from the clearing where they’d made camp, Gandalf was already speaking to Burzash himself. 

They were conversing in a language Thorin couldn’t even begin to place, yet alone understand, and as Thorin watched the Orc’s face crumpled and pinched and looked so infinitely pained. 

He stepped away, slipping back to camp - he’d ask Gandalf about the oddities later. For now, he’d simply stew on another question: what could possibly make a creature of death look as though its heart had been ripped out. 

  
  
  
  
  


The conversation Thorin had seen went something like this.

Bilbo had hunted down Gandalf for the purpose of asking after his mother, because he would really like to know how the world ended up without him in it to witness.

“Miss Belladonna?” Gandalf echoed when he asked, before mulling it over a moment. “Yes, I suppose you would want to know what exactly happened before you were sent back here. How much of your life do you remember?”

“All of it,” Bilbo said. “But I don’t know how much carries over. This world must be different, if I’m an Orc. Does the Hobbit me exist somewhere, going about his normal life?”

“Heavens, no,” Gandalf said. “That would be most disastrous, two Bilbo Bagginses at one time. Forgive me, I assumed you simply came backward in time and  _ chose  _ to leave the Shire and take this form. I did not consider that you were sent to it by someone else’s will after the fact.”

Bilbo frowned. “What do you mean? I... _ became _ an Orc? Not by the Valar’s magic, but by my own actions?” 

Gandalf hummed. “How to explain… Orcs can come into being one of two ways, Master Baggins. The first is birth, natural as any other being, but the other...The other is a curse. The first Orcs were created from Elves, who after years of torture could not retain any light in their souls. That torture can be recreated by any Orc with a dark enough soul, and turn new creatures.” 

Bilbo swallowed, catching on with horror. “I was tortured?”

“I would assume,” Gandalf said. “If you were to ask any Hobbit in the Shire about Bilbo Baggins, they would say he was perfectly normal up until his fiftieth year, when he ran out in the night without a word and was never heard from again. Five years later, here you stand, fully established as an Orc of Mount Gundabad.”

“I just..left?” Bilbo tried to understand, and decided that must have simply been the influence of the Valar. He could see no reason why he would simply slip away in the night like a thief. “Do you know what happened to me, exactly?”

“Not in the slightest,” Gandalf said. “I only know what happened to that extent because I went looking for you after the first dream I received. I am afraid I have seen much of your other life, but nothing of this one.” 

Bilbo nodded, mulling that over. “So I must have been made an Orc, and ended up in the mountain under Azog, serving for a few years and building a team to leave.” That didn’t sound right, but Bilbo wasn’t really sure what else could be true, so he’d have to go with that theory for now. “How do I reverse it?”

Gandalf gave him a soft, sympathetic look. “My dear boy. You cannot. Once the change is begun, it cannot be halted or reversed. The taint in your soul will continue twisting your heart until there is nothing left of light.” 

Bilbo felt as though he’d been struck a physical blow. Here, he’d been hopeful, scrambling for shreds of humanity in the Orcs around him...but it was just what had yet to be stomped out.

He was cursed, and he was doomed. 

“Gandalf,” Bilbo said, speaking softly, even though the words would not be understandable to anyone besides them. “I need to make sure this succeeds, and that my goal is met. But if anything along the way should happen...if I lose who I am to this form…” 

Gandalf grabbed his arm, holding tightly. “Do not ask this of me, Bilbo. I know what you think, and I cannot be the one to do it.”

“Then get someone else to,” Bilbo said. “If it is my life or his, Gandalf,  _ take mine.  _ There is little I would not give for him, and  _ nothing  _ I would not give to stop the dark times ahead.”

Gandalf gave a slow, solemn nod. “I hope, for your sake, that you prove as resilient to dark forces as you have in my dreams.” 

Without Frodo as a focusing point, without the calm of the Shire to keep him grounded, Bilbo wasn’t sure he would be. 

He didn’t have any choices, though.

He had to try.

  
  
  
  
  


“Gandalf,” Thorin called, softly, riding up to the wizard’s side after their departure the next morning. “I have questions, if you would answer them.”

Gandalf sighed and looked down at the Dwarf king, lowering his voice so that they could speak privately. “I assume they are to do with our more bestial company?” 

“The large Orc,” Thorin confirmed. “What is it about him that makes him so much different from the others? Whatever malice and bloodlust is within him, he contains and disguises it well.”

“He does no such thing,” Gandalf said. “Bilbo is a peaceful soul, at his core. Perhaps it has to do with the Hobbit in him, but I consider it more a quality of heart. He would not wish for pain or suffering for even his worst of enemies, and for that he is admirable.”

Thorin was unconvinced, but let it go. His question had not been answered, and he was not letting the wizard dodge it. “But  _ what _ sets him apart? What made him as he is? I cannot trust him to be genuine; regardless of his race, he will not so much as speak a word to me.” 

Gandalf huffed. “He will not waste his breath where it is not wanted,” he said. “He will speak to you at such a time as you will listen.” Before Thorin could object, he continued, looking ahead in a sort of sad, distant way. “As for what makes him who he is...He has seen suffering beyond measure, and knows only the darkest paths the world may take. He was once a creature of light and hope, and now he is twisted - do you wonder, Thorin Oakenshield, why that is? What it was that could take a heart as soft and kind as a Hobbit’s and place it in a body such as that?” 

Thorin frowned. “Speak plainly. What turned him?”

“Time,” Gandalf said. “Above anything else, time. Even the smallest of wounds can fester if left untreated, and Bilbo’s wounds were quite large. Imagine, Master Oakenshield, that you left behind everything you knew for the sake of another. That you put your trust and faith in them, and swore to follow them wherever your path may lead - only to watch them fall, within reach of their goal. It leaves a scar that would shatter a lesser man’s optimism entirely.” Gandalf’s hands tightened on his reins. “In my dreams, I watch Bilbo as he once was, being sunk so lowly into grief he should have been powerless to resist any dark influence, but remaining strong regardless. He found things to anchor him and kept on living, refusing to let the memories fade, and he held fast to who he is. Bilbo Baggins is not a monster, Master Oakenshield, for the simple fact that he refused to become one.”

“If you expect me to feel any empathy for a beast…”

Gandalf turned a sharp look on Thorin. “I do not  _ expect  _ anything from you, Master Oakenshield, except that you heed my words when I tell you that Bilbo Baggins has suffered beyond measure, and that his pain should not be dismissed so easily because of his face.” 

Gandalf rode ahead then, not giving Thorin time to respond.

The Dwarf king was starting to get the uncomfortable feeling he was going to have to let the Orc’s oddities go, if he was to get any peace, and he didn’t like it in the slightest. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“They’re  _ mocking  _ us,” Durz snapped as she tossed her pack onto the ground, choosing to set up her space to sleep right at her feet instead of bothering to get into the cover of trees for an actual camp. “They’re trying to show they think us  _ weak.”  _

“They’re tired, Durz,” Bilbo tried to soothe her. “Dwarves can’t spend as long awake as Orcs. This is entirely for their own benefit - if we were any other race, we’d find this pace grueling.” 

It was true: they were moving faster for longer than they had in his first life, which meant the Dwarves had either been going easy on him or were currently being stubborn so as to not look weak in front of the Orcs.

Or, maybe, Thorin just wanted the whole thing over with. The sooner they reached Rivendell, the sooner they could leave it. The sooner they reached Erebor, the sooner he could send the Orcs away.

Bilbo tried not to think too hard about how little Thorin wanted to do with him. The constant watchful eyes and cutting glares were bad enough without dwelling on the thought behind them.

Instead, he focused on his own company - specifically, the fact that they were all getting rather annoyed with their regular stops.

It had only been three days, so far, and between two nights of rest on the road and around five meal breaks, the Orcs were left questioning Bilbo as to whether the Dwarves even meant to get anywhere at all. 

Durz rolled her shoulders, jaw muscles working as she visibly talked herself down. Once her face was calmer, she bit out, “If they want to get somewhere faster, drag them off their ponies and put them on Wargs. We can hold more than just ourselves.” 

That...was an idea, certainly, but Bilbo doubted anyone would go for it. The Dwarves would likely not take well to the concept of sharing a ride with an Orc, and he wouldn’t trust them on the backs of one by themselves. That would most likely end in blood - though were it the blood of the Warg or the Dwarven riders, he couldn’t say. 

“I’ll speak with them,” Bilbo said. “Offer them our help. But if they deny it, don’t take it personally. It is frustrating to move slowly, I’m sure, but we’re not in any hurry. It is their quest we are on, after all, and therefore we only need to go as fast as they see fit.”

Durz scowled, but it was her brother who spoke up. “She’s worried about you, captain,” Pakgu said. “Every day we spend with these Dwarves is another chance for their leader to finally give into temptation and just kill you.”

Bilbo snorted. “Thank you for the explanation, Pakgu, but I can assure you I’m not in any danger here. Gandalf would not let Thorin act rashly, and even if he weren’t around, Thorin is not the type to slit one’s throat in their sleep. If he choses to fight me, it will not be done quietly.” 

“That reminds me,” Mokum cut in, nudging Bilbo to grab his attention. “This Dwarf is the one that cut off Azog’s hand, isn’t it?”

“ _ He  _ is,” Bilbo confirmed, and lifted his hands in a placating gesture as all three of the Orcs around him let out offended sounds. “Azog took his grandfather’s head, first, so a hand was honestly quite an uneven trade. Not, of course, that Thorin won’t likely try to correct that later.”

“Azog will want to gut you even more, now,” Durz said. “But it can’t be helped. A promise you have made, and a promise we shall fulfill.” 

“Thank you,” Bilbo sighed. “Set up your bedrolls. I will find someone to talk to about the pace.”

He meant to immediately seek out Gandalf, as he did for most things, but was waylaid shortly after he’d distanced himself from his party by Thorin himself.

“Orc,” the king called, possibly the closest thing to a greeting Bilbo would ever earn. “I have questions for you.”

Bilbo debated, for a moment, simply walking away. Eighty years he’d lived since Thorin’s death, and he’d learned exactly which point being polite needed to stop to get one’s point across. He’d been a rather ornery old man, if Frodo was to be believed. Mad Baggins, indeed - mad at nosy, greedy neighbors, and now mad at snobbish Dwarven royalty. 

Unfortunately, he  _ did  _ care about Thorin’s opinion of him, and he wanted them to at least be able to speak to each other, if not be friendly. So, for the sake of experimenting, he attempted to speak in Westron yet again.

“I will answer anything, within reason,” he said.

Thorin scowled, and Bilbo knew the words had come out in Black Speech. He turned and called for Gandalf, who approached with an amused and knowing look in his eye. 

“My friends,” Gandalf greeted. “You have need of a translator, then, Thorin?”

“I will get answers, even if he will not speak them to me,” Thorin insisted. “Will you tell me what he says?”

“Ah, of course,” Gandalf said. “Forgive my translations, if they are rough; Black Speech is a dark and archaic tongue, and does not quite align with Westron speaking patterns.”

“As long as I know what I need to know, I don’t care,” Thorin said, before looking back to Bilbo. “Now, tell me. What is it that drives you to join our quest? What makes you turn against one of your own leaders?”

Gandalf sighed, placing a hand on one of Thorin’s shoulders gently. “Master Oakenshield, my dear friend has no love for the leader of the Gundabad Orcs. I don’t need to translate anything to tell you this.”

“I don’t believe that,” Thorin said. “Not on faith. How am I to be sure he’s not waiting to hand over the treasures of Erebor to the pale Orc himself?”

Bilbo’s teeth clicked loudly as he snapped his jaw shut tight, fists clenching at his sides. When Thorin looked to him, he grit out, “I do not owe you an explanation of what he’s done to make me hate him, but know that Azog will never be so much as a passive thought on my mind. I do not believe in death, Thorin Oakenshield, but I would run him through myself for the crimes he’s committed. The blood on his hands cannot be washed away by time or magic or the Valar themselves.” He looked to Gandalf. “Tell him  _ that,  _ if you want. Tell him, because I cannot. Even if he would hear me speak, even if he  _ tried _ to listen, he will never know what I have seen that led me here.” 

  
  
  
  
  


Thorin watched the Orc turn on his heel and march off, fuming at some great offense Thorin hadn’t even really intended. 

“He took that as a slight to his honor, then?” he guessed, looking to Gandalf - only to freeze, because Gandalf looked more icily serious than Thorin had ever seen him.

“His honor, no,” Gandalf said. “I wish you had asked me your questions, rather than confront Bilbo - I fear you may have firmly cut off any chance of getting along with him, with that little scene.”

“What did I say wrong, this time?” Thorin spat. “All I did was ask for an explanation.”

“By accusing him of having split loyalties,” Gandalf said. “You had now way of knowing this, Thorin, but the one I told you about - the one Bilbo followed, loved, and lost - he was killed by Azog himself. I suspect there are few creatures in Middle Earth Bilbo would like to serve  _ less.”  _

Thorin frowned. “Who was this person? He was a Hobbit before, yes? What quest could possibly drag a  _ halfling  _ into a battlefield?”

“Hobbits have been on many battlefields, Master Oakenshield,” Gandalf told him. “It is just that few folk ever think to look down.” 

Folding his hands atop his staff, Gandalf levelled Thorin with an intense stare, and left him with words that shook him to his core.

“I will tell you this of Bilbo’s loss: he was stubborn, and prideful, and foolish, and so it should not surprise you in the slightest to learn he was a Dwarf. Think on this, Thorin, before you accuse him of valuing his own kind over yours.”

Gandalf marched off after the Orc leader, and Thorin simply sat down in the grass, taking a moment to process this new information.

It would explain a lot, Thorin realized. Why the Orc was so kind to them, why he’d referenced knowing a bit about their culture when speaking to Ori, why he grew angry so quickly when Thorin accused him of betraying their party. Burzash was not seeing them, not truly. He was seeing those he’d once cared for and lost, and was trying to protect them like he had not been able to protect his own friends. 

Thorin would not trust the Orc - he didn’t have that level of forgiveness in him - but he could accept that as a reason to stop actively _ dis _ trusting him. 

The Dwarves were chasing the memory of home, and if Burzash chose to do the same, Thorin would not stand in his way. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops im not dead

Thorin did not attempt to interrogate Bilbo again. 

Bilbo wasn't sure what exactly Gandalf told the Dwarf king he said, but whatever it was managed to successfully stifle the urge he seemed to have to find a hidden motive among the Orcs. 

He was torn between being upset or relieved: while it was nice to not have to defend himself at every turn against Thorin’s harsh words, it also meant that Bilbo could only watch from a distance as the one who meant so much to him in another life went along the same path Bilbo remembered fondly. 

That peace only lasted a solid two days, though. Bilbo had managed to convince Gandalf to take a ‘safer’ route through the cover of woods - straight through the trollshaws. 

Bilbo thought it risky to put them in the path of trolls deliberately, but he simply couldn't convince himself to leave Sting behind. 

The sword would be a dagger at best to him, now, but the memories it held were worth more than its blade. 

First, though. First, they'd have to  _ face  _ the trolls, and Bilbo didn't see that going very well at all. 

Yet somehow, when it went south, he was still surprised. 

  
  
  


He started putting his plan into motion in the early morning, hours before dawn, when the company of Dwarves dragged themselves awake to get breakfast in and get moving as soon as sun lit their path. 

Bilbo wouldn’t be able to follow Kili and Fili under the guise of taking them their breakfast, this time, so he made up for that by waiting until they slipped off and then finding his Warg. 

“Hello, my darling boy,” Bilbo greeted Timorsham, who shook with excitement and rubbed his head against Bilbo’s side eagerly. “I need you to do me a favor. Can you go with Fili and Kili, and watch them?”

The Warg continued to simply stare up at Bilbo.

“The little Dwarves,” Bilbo clarified. “The brothers. The loud ones?”

Timorsham’s head tipped sideways, and Bilbo realized he was being silly. 

“Oh, why am I thinking you understand me?” Bilbo reached out to scratch behind one of the Warg’s ears. “One moment.”

He headed over to the bedding areas, looking over to the main area of the camp to make sure everyone was eating and not watching him, before quietly swiping an abandoned glove off of Fili’s bedroll and carrying it to Timorsham.

“Here, boy,” Bilbo offered it over. “Go track them down, okay?”

The Warg sniffed the cloth for only a single moment before turning and sprinting off toward the woods, nose to the ground.

“I saw that.”

Bilbo jumped, turning to stare wide-eyed at Sonagh, one of the Orcs of his party he hadn’t had much time to get to know. Durz, Pakgu, and Mokum were all free with their commentary, but the other tree were sullen and silent most times, leaving their personalities as mysteries to Bilbo. 

Now, as Sonagh watched Bilbo with eerily knowing eyes, Bilbo wondered if that was going to come back to bite him.

Instead, though, Sonagh turned his eyes to the trees, in the same direction Timorsham had run. “You smelled them too, then? The trolls?”

Oh, bless the Valar, Bilbo had an  _ excuse.  _ Now that he thought about it, the forest did have a strangely rotten smell, but he’d been ignoring any stenches and writing them off as the other Orcs’ aversion to bathing. 

“Timorsham’s not going to fight trolls,” Sonagh said. “He’s not a war-beast, he’s a scouter. Which means you’re not sending him to protect the boys. You’re waiting for him to come get you.” 

“If I follow them, Thorin will string me up,” Bilbo explained. “The Dwarves don’t trust me enough for me to go follow around two of their youngest party members. Timorsham will alert me if something happens, and I’ll go help if I’m needed.” 

Sonagh stared at him for a second, and then frowned. “How are you going to explain sending you Warg along, if they ask?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Bilbo laughed. “I thought about saying I sent him to watch Gollum-..”

“The Goblin thing?” 

“Yes, exactly. But honestly, he’ll probably be trying to steal some of the ponies’ apples. He’s snuck two from the supply pony’s satchel already.” 

Sonagh shook his head, lips twitching up into a slight smile. “This. This is why you were almost an Expel. Turning a beast with teeth that can crush bone into a lapdog with a sweet tooth for fruit.” 

Bilbo really needed to figure out what ‘Expel’ was even meant to be. In the meantime, he shrugged. “He’s a very good Warg and I am happy to have him, even if the rest of you think he’s silly.”

Sonagh didn’t get a chance to reply before a loud scream came from the woods. 

Bilbo didn’t waste a single second, sprinting toward the sound, distantly registering the rest of the travelling party following close behind. 

Bilbo expected to find the boys in the troll’s clutches, ready to be put into a stew, but instead he found something much more….interesting. 

Kili, apparently the one who had screamed, was on the dirt on his back, pinned under Timorsham, who was nosing around his shirt, sniffing at the fabric. 

“Timorsham!” Bilbo called. “Come here!”

The Warg didn’t hesitate, abandoning the Dwarf to slam into Bilbo’s legs instead, flopping down to lay across his feet. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Thorin barked at Bilbo, glaring harshly. “Your beast dares to attack one of my kin?”

“He didn’t  _ attack,”  _ Bilbo muttered, but didn’t bother trying to speak directly to Thorin. It was pointless, anyway. Instead, he looked to Kili. “What have you got in your pockets?” 

He tried not to flinch at his own question - he was suddenly having flashbacks to a particular game of riddles. 

Kili, looking confused, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out the contents. The runestone Bilbo remembered he always carried, a spare bowstring, and…

“Good boy, Timorsham,” Bilbo praised, scratching his Warg’s ear.

In Kili’s pocket, he’d had the other half of the set of gloves Bilbo had guided Timorsham with. 

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo said to Fili and Kili, trying not to laugh so as to sound sincere. He did feel rather bad, honestly, but at least they were closer to the trolls. “I sent him this way using one of your gloves as a guide. He was just trying to bring me its match, I suppose.”

“You were tracking us?” Kili demanded, sitting up at last. “Why?”

Bilbo was saved from an answer by a loud cry of  _ “What’s all this noise?!”  _ from the forest.

“...That’s why,” Bilbo admitted, quietly, watching all the Dwarves scramble for weapons.

“Gandalf!” Thorin shouted out, before looking around and taking note of the wizard’s absence. “Where is Gandalf?”

Bilbo didn’t wait for him to find an answer, just drew his grisly Orc-blade and headed into the clearing he’d told stories of to children for the past eighty years. 

Somewhere along the line, he’d embellished the story a bit too much, making the whole camp gruesome and vile. In reality, other than the trolls themselves and a small pile of animal bones by the cookpot, it was rather standard for a forest clearing. However, that was masked almost entirely by Bilbo’s newly sensitive senses, allowing him to  _ smell  _ every single piece of meat that was left to rot on the bone, all the grime on the skin of the trolls, and the sickening scent of the creatures’ stew. 

If he hadn’t already adjusted to stomaching stenches along their trip, he’d likely have gotten physically sick. As it was, he had to chew on the inside of his cheek and actively remind himself not to breathe in as much as he could help it. 

“Ugh!” 

Bilbo’s eyes landed on the troll who cried out, looking down at him in horror. 

“There’s a bloody Orc down there!”

“An  _ orc?”  _ another troll called, shoving his brother aside. “Move, lemme see! Oh!” He leaned forward, squinting closely at Bilbo. “That’s not an Orc. S’got hair on it.”

“Orcs don’t have hair?” 

“No, you stupid!” the final troll scolded, hitting his sibling - specifically, the one squinting at Bilbo. “That  _ is  _ an Orc! And it’s gonna kill us if ya don’t mind its space.”

“Pardon me,” Bilbo called up to them. “I don’t intend to kill anyone, if it’s the same to you.”

The eldest troll, the one scolding its siblings, blinked down at Bilbo in clear confusion. “You don’t?”

“Well, no,” he said. “I don’t have any reason to, at the moment. If you don’t hurt anyone, neither will we.” 

“We?”

Bilbo tipped his chin up, and whistled, calling Timorsham back to his side. The Warg lept out from the bushes behind him, crouching by his side and snarling at the trolls, who backed up several feet. A moment later, the rest of the orc came spilling out behind him, weapons drawn and stances defensive.

“It’s a whole raid!” one of the trolls cried. “We’re done for!”

“Oh, hush, now,” Bilbo told him. “You’re not in any danger at all if you’ll simply listen to me.”

“What do you want?”

“You have a hoard nearby, yes?” he asked. “Where you keep the things you’ve collected?”

The eldest troll narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You want our gold?”

“What?” Bilbo shook his head. “No, no, not your gold. Just  _ listen.  _ You have-...”

There was a shout to his side, and he turned to see the Dwarves sprint into the clearing, weapons raised for battle. 

“Oh, blast it,” he huffed, as the trolls all grabbed for their own weapons. He turned, looking for Gandalf, but saw no sign of the wizard. Wherever he’d gotten off to, he wasn’t around to stop the Dwarves from picking a fight, which meant it was up to  _ Bilbo  _ to resolve it.

He really hadn’t wanted to hurt the trolls, if he could avoid it. Turning them to stone was better than letting Thorin gut them, though, so Bilbo sought out the boulder that Gandalf had split before. 

He had no magic staff to cut through it, but he had one thing better: the Orcs had told him his strength was almost unmatched. It was time for him to put it to use. 

The boulder was sitting on a ledge, just far enough in that its own weight kept it grounded. Bilbo, however, was just the right size and strength to get between it and the wall of the mountain and  _ shove,  _ pushing the stone loose and letting it roll downhill away from the clearing. 

Dawn light spilled through, and he looked over the ledge to watch as the trolls’ skins slowly hardened into rock, freezing them in their defensive stances around their cookpot. 

“Well done!” Mokum called up to him. “That was a much cleaner victory than what the Dwarves would have delivered.”

“I wasn’t going to fight them at all!” Bilbo informed his friend, climbing back down into the clearing. “Honestly, that lot started it. We could have settled it perfectly civilly if Thorin had just kept out of it.” 

“I hear my name,” Thorin’s voice came to Bilbo’s side. “And yet he will not even speak words I can follow.”

Bilbo resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and ignored the Dwarf king, addressing Mokum instead. “There’s a cave nearby. I’m going to go check what is in it. I think it has something I’m looking for.”

“I’ll come with you.” 

Bilbo nodded, and they were off, heading to seek out the troll hoard.

  
  
  


“You’ve got to be kidding.”   
Bilbo looked up from the blade he’d been inspecting, raising an eyebrow at Mokum. “It’s a very nice blade, if a little tiny. Why wouldn’t I keep it?”

“Not the dagger, Burzash,” Mokum said. “You’re seriously taking those two?  _ Beater  _ and  _ Biter?” _

“Glamdring is for Gandalf,” Bilbo confirmed. “And I will see if we can’t get Thorin to accept Orcrist, here. An Elven blade from an Orc is probably not a gift he’s interested in, but it’s worth a shot.” 

“You’re insane,” Mokum told him. “Completely. You’re going to give a renowned Orc-slaying blade to one who would  _ gladly  _ take your head off with it.” 

“Well, he’s welcome to try,” Bilbo said. “I’m quite a bit taller than him, at the moment.”

“At the moment?”   
Bilbo shook his head. “Ignore me. I’m being silly.” He waved toward the contents of the cave. “There’s more in here, are you sure you don’t want anything?”

“I want out of this stink pit,” Mokum said. “And I want you to not get yourself killed. That’s enough.”

“No promises!” Bilbo replied, cheerily. “But I will try my best, and we can most certainly leave this place. I’m not fond of the smell, either.”

  
  
  
  
  


Thorin was yelling at Gandalf when they reached the camp. 

“Oh dear,” Bilbo muttered. “What’s he on about?”

Listening in for a moment made it worse: Thorin was yelling about _ Bilbo.  _

“The Orc had his beast following Kili! It  _ attacked,  _ and it lead them to be discovered by those beasts, and we are supposed to let it go?”

“Oh, well, that’s a bit unfair,” Bilbo said. “Gandalf. Timorsham didn’t mean to attack. He was just trying to track down Kili, which is what I  _ asked  _ him to do, because I knew following those two would get me run through with a sword in a flash and I didn’t want them tripping into trolls on their own.”

“Why did you not alert someone the trolls were there, my dear friend?”

Bilbo grimaced. 

Thorin, who hadn’t understood Bilbo’s speech but  _ had  _ understood Gandalf’s question, bristled. “He knew of them? And said nothing? This is who you would have me ally with?”

“You slipped off somewhere,” Bilbo told Gandalf. “And unless I’m talking philosophy with Ori, I can’t speak to this lot.  _ And,”  _ he continued, pitching his voice up even though he knew Thorin wouldn’t actually hear a word. “I didn’t  _ intend  _ for there to be any fighting! If he would have let me handle it, we could have gotten what we needed and been on our way.”

“You retrieved something from them?” Gandalf asked. “What?”

“I’m glad you asked!” Bilbo said, pettily, before pulling out Glamdring, holding it out on flat, extended palms. “For you. Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer. Or Beater, if you’re a Goblin, I suppose.” 

Then, he turned and pulled out Orcrist, kneeling before Thorin so they could see eye-to-eye (and wasn’t  _ that  _ a fun change, having to be the tall one for once). “And you, you  _ insufferable  _ Dwarf, have been a massive pain, and not in any way helpful in making this easier. My company is just as upset with this arrangement as yours, and your attitude is making it much harder to cope with! Nevertheless, I’d see you wield this. It is Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver, known to dark beasts as  _ Biter  _ for it blade. I have seen it used for great things, by one I loved dearly, and I would see those feats be done with it again.” 

“...I accept.”

Bilbo blinked, incredulous at receiving a short and concise reply - let alone a  _ positive  _ one. He took in the Dwarf’s baffled look and realized that, for once, every word he’d said had actually come out clearly.

Honestly, Eru was just having a laugh at his expense at that point! By the Green Lady, he’d just called Thorin insufferable  _ to his face.  _

He was so glad his company did not speak Westron, because saying any of that where they could hear it would have been asking for the mockery he was doubtless going to get anyway, just from what they could fill in based on context. 

Bilbo handed over the blade and scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could, face burning. “Right, then. Let’s get moving! Travel with the sun, correct? To Rivendell!”

Gandalf’s amused smile told Bilbo he hadn’t recovered half as smoothly as he’d have liked, but it was fine. As long as they made it to Rivendell without Bilbo making more of an ass of himself, they’d be perfectly alright. 

….Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you probably thought bilbo's first words to thorin would be something dramatic and impressive but nope, i live to troll


End file.
